


Putting Out Fire with Gasoline

by Ywain Penbrydd (penbrydd)



Series: Vexation of Spirit [17]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV), Shadow Unit, The Lone Gunmen (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Cats, Fluff, M/M, Past Drug Addiction, References to Drugs, drug-related murders, if it wasn't an AU before it sure is one now, television-quality depictions of hacking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:06:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 62,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22655977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penbrydd/pseuds/Ywain%20Penbrydd
Summary: Villette comes home to an almost-pleasant surprise. Reid comes home to a case that does not go as well as he'd like. And in the background, a deadly opponent prepares one final game-ending strike that Langly is waiting to capture.
Relationships: Richard "Ringo" Langly/Spencer Reid/Chaz Villette
Series: Vexation of Spirit [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1058681
Comments: 104
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

"Hafs?" Chaz called into the house as he closed the door behind him. He wasn't usually in the habit of announcing himself, when he came home, but he also wasn't usually in the habit of leaving town by himself for weeks at a time. A few days, here and there, but not like this. "I brought you some vintage preserved persimmons!"  
  
"I'm sorry, you what?" Hafidha leaned around the wall at the bottom of the stairs, one arm awkwardly holding the top of her bathrobe closed, at an unusual point.  
  
"Preserved persimmons. Vacuum sealed, in honey. I opened a jar before we flew home, and they're, ah... They're probably food." Chaz shrugged with cross-eyed uncertainty. "What's new with you?"  
  
Before Hafidha could say a word, a single very small, very clear 'mew!' broke the silence.  
  
The uncertainty on Chaz's face turned to confused disbelief, and he watched Hafidha's face.  
  
"I was hoping to get to an appropriate point in the conversation before that happened." She stuck one hand into the front of her robe and moved the other arm, so the robe fell away from her pyjama-clad chest and the small, orange kitten she held out to Chaz. "We have a cat. His name is Schmengy Paws."  
  
"What? How?" Chaz was sure he looked far more horrified than he thought he actually felt, but he wasn't prepared to swear to that. "That's-- Are you _sure_? Shit, let me put my bag down."  
  
"Am I sure it's a cat? At my age, I hope I'd recognise a cat, but I'm sure you'll tell me if I'm wrong." Hafidha watched him, faintly bemused. "See? Little pointy ears, long tail, goes 'mew' and 'meep', eats cat food and hamburgers. Pretty sure it's a cat, Chaz."  
  
"Are you sure this is a good decision?" Chaz's eyes turned serious, as he kicked his bag toward the edge of the living room carpet and held his hands out for the kitten.  
  
"Look, I'm okay. The worst thing I've done in _years_ was throw your pyrex over the balcony, and that might've been the Bug, but that was personal. I didn't even let you freeze to death in your drunken sulk-fest. If I think I'm going to do something stupid, I'll put the cat in your room, with the door closed, and go tune the Bugzapper," she promised, gently passing the cat into Chaz's too-large hands.  
  
"Well, hello," he cooed at the kitten, cradling it against his chest as he wiggled his fingers at it. The kitten, as kittens do, wriggled and batted at his fingers, wide-eyed and wild, until it caught one it could chew on. "And where did you come from, hmm?" he cooed, and shot a sharp look at Hafidha. "Seriously, Hafs, what the _hell_?"  
  
"I don't know. I came down the other morning, and found him on the patio, all covered in snow and yelling his little head off. I think somebody dumped him, because he's too big to fit through the fence and he's too small to climb over it. He had frostbite all over his feet, so I just took him to work with me, in my pocket, and fed him a hamburger from downstairs. Washed him up in the bathroom, and Nikki and I bandaged him up. He seems to be okay, now."  
  
"Where's--?" Chaz shrugged expressively.  
  
"Litterbox is in _your_ bathroom, because it opens onto the hall. Either of us can clean it, there, without it being weird. Food's right behind you, under the mail table. Easy to see, we both pass it all the time."  
  
"It's right next to the door, which means the cat's going to run out every time the door opens." Chaz eyed her. "My last cat wasn't even _my_ cat. I didn't have to care where the cat was. If Angry Kitteh wanted food, there would be a cat. Otherwise, not so much. But, if this is actually our cat, I think he should probably stay inside. I don't want him getting run over."  
  
"See, you already like the kitty." Hafidha offered a winning smile.  
  
"It's a cat, Hafs. Of course I like it." Chaz nuzzled the kitten and got an offended paw in the eye. "And for some reason, it seems to like me." The kitten twisted around and climbed up on his shoulder, peering into the distance and jamming its tail up his nose. Chaz huffed and turned his head. "Did you really name him 'Schmengy Pause'? Because I'm a little lost."  
  
"Paws, like little kitty feet. And yes, I did. That is our cat, and his name is Schmengy Paws, because ... I don't really know. It was the first thing I thought of." Hafidha crossed her arms defensively.  
  
"You named the cat after a completely incomprehensible line from a BBS door game everyone in their right mind drank until they forgot." Chaz managed a look somewhere between concerned and amused.  
  
"Hey, that line was the only thing from that part of the nineties worth remembering."  
  
Chaz nodded contemplatively, as Schmengy Paws tried to decide if his ear was edible. "Okay, I'll probably give you that one. I didn't really like the nineties."  
  
Hafidha laughed. "You were too young to like the nineties."  
  
"Screw you, I liked the eighties just fine." Chaz turned his head to look at the cat on his shoulder, which promptly batted at his nose. "Did you cook, or were you just waiting for me to get home, so I'd do it? I think the fuzzbomb is hungry."  
  
"I think I pretty much obliterated the freezer. If you didn't come home this week, I was going to have to resort to ordering pizza." Hafidha re-tied her bathrobe and came down the last few steps. "Which I think I'm going to do anyway, because I'm not completely evil. You just got off a plane. Sit down. Play with the cat. I'll order pizza."  
  
"I still can't believe this. I left town for... what, not even three weeks, and you got a cat. I'm not sure if that's a sign I should leave town more or less often."

* * *

"I am going to pour myself into the chair and just... not get up until I have to," Reid groaned, halfway up the stairs.  
  
Behind him, Langly's keys jingled. "Better plan? I bought you a bed for Christmas. I mean, it's still on my side of the wall, but we can fix that later in the week. Right now, it's just a bed the size of like a third of your living room, and there's nobody in it but us."  
  
"Tell me it doesn't smell like hotels or mothballs." Reid paused at the top of the stairs, his own door almost immediately to his right, the other door a few feet to the left.  
  
"It smells like I washed everything in your laundry soap before it got put on the bed," Langly promised, leaning his head on Reid's shoulder. "Come on, I bet we can still order Chinese and leave the leftovers in the fridge for breakfast."  
  
"I have eaten so much in the last three days, I don't think I can even swallow another meal." Reid stepped out of the way and let Langly unlock the door to the corner apartment, the one with all the windows. The one that now held his bed, and little else. His bed? No. _Their_ bed. And he still had to decide some whether and where about the door, so that going to bed -- to that bed -- from his desk wouldn't involve going out into the hall and potentially dealing with the neighbours.  
  
"Villette was worried about you. For about two days, there, I was worried about you." Langly looked down the hall, to make sure it was clear, and then held the door open for Reid to follow him in.  
  
"I just needed a day off. Really. Except that day off and the two days after it were apparently-- I have to remind Chaz that I really can't eat as much as he does. I'm just going to lay in a sunbeam for the rest of the weekend like a snake that just swallowed a rabbit. I'm lucky I can still close my trousers," Reid complained, leaning over Langly's shoulder to push the door closed. He smiled slowly, the temptation obvious on his face. "Check for bugs, so we can go to bed."  
  
"Already did. The only electronics in here are supposed to be here." Langly offered a wicked smile. "You're in a hurry."  
  
"I just spent multiple hours on an airplane with your cousin. Not exactly circumstances that favour the wearing of trousers that don't quite fit any more." Reid stepped back and spent a moment trying to figure out where to put his bag, because the whole place was the wrong way around.  
  
"You could've just opened the top--"  
  
"Not in front of Mary. Not in front of anyone, really, but had it just been you and Chaz, I might have been convinced." Reid stopped in the middle of the room and turned in a slow circle, looking at the way the wall colour faded from a medium violet at the door to a blue so dark it was indistinguishable from black, with the light coming through the windows in that wall. The bed occupied almost the entire side of the room, offset by the shelves to either side. The only way onto it was from the foot, and the light coming through the curtains gave the space an almost mystical feel. Not, perhaps, what he'd have designed for himself, but strangely appealing, even if he felt like he was supposed to wash his feet and make an offering before he tried to get into the bed.  
  
He finally settled for leaving the bag against the wall, where it notched, and left his shoes beside it, as he tried to figure out where, in this furniture-free room, he was going to put his jacket. The clothes could just go back in his bag. He'd been living out of it for more than a month at this point, anyway. Giving up, he folded and rolled the jacket, tying the sleeves around it, and set it on top of his bag, once he got his pyjamas.  
  
And then, finally, he could stop wearing the pants he'd put on that morning.  
  
"You're replacing your pants with other pants," Langly pointed out. "Doesn't that kind of defeat the purpose?"  
  
"Pyjama pants are drawstring," Reid pointed out. "They'll get me through the weekend, and by then, I'll probably have recovered. I'd wonder how Chaz manages to fit that much food in his body, but I'm absolutely sure there are physical changes beyond just the metabolic ones. _You've_ probably noticed."  
  
Langly cleared his throat, eyebrows arcing up. "I don't eat as much as he does."  
  
"That's... interesting." The implications rattled through Reid's mind like a marble in a pachinko machine, as he buttoned his pyjama top. "I wonder if anyone's done a study of the eating habits of the converted anomalous population versus those born anomalous."  
  
"Assume the answer is no." Langly stripped most of his clothes off, wadded them into a ball, and dropped them at the foot of the bed. "No shower?"  
  
"I think showering is going to end in vomiting, right now, and I'd like to avoid that. I'll wash the sheets again, tomorrow, when I feel a little more like a person than an overstuffed piñata." Reid stood at the foot of the bed, eyeing it with no small amount of trepidation.  
  
"Should've given me your garlic bread," Langly teased, throwing himself backward onto the bed, in nothing but a t-shirt.  
  
"Like hell, good sir." Reid crawled up over Langly and poked him firmly in the chest. "Like hell."  
  
Langly tipped his head back, arching his back to get a look at the windows, as he realised how well he could see everything in the room. "Should I have gotten heavier curtains?"  
  
"I like these curtains. They're just enough. That dull blue feels like exactly the sort of evening I don't usually have." Reid pulled at the blankets until the top of them came into reach, and tried to get beneath them without getting too tangled. "The bed is huge, though. It's... this is really kind of ridiculous."  
  
"It's not actually that big." Langly joined Reid under the covers. "It looks bigger than it is, because this end of the room is narrow. Your _couch_ is like six and a half feet and takes up most of the width, so this is an... shit, I forgot what I bought, but it's a niche standard size, for the most part. It'll take sheets you don't have to special order, and I have the size written down somewhere. It's one of the Alaskas, but I can't remember the measurements. Blame it on the fact it's been a month since I looked at them, and it's been a real hell of a month."  
  
"I'm sorry, this is a _standard size_? This is the size of a _room_ , Langly!" Reid stretched and groaned, trying to get comfortable.  
  
"It's either eight or nine feet, so yeah, it's bigger than your bathroom. And it's bagged so that when, not if, but when, Villette elbows his coffee onto it, it's just the sheets."  
  
"I feel like it's more likely you're going to fling hot mustard onto it." Reid paused, staring up at the dark blue ceiling, dotted with what he expected were supposed to be stars. "Weren't you going to order Chinese?"  
  
"You can't eat. I just ate. I'll call for a pizza when we get up."  
  
"I have to start sleeping reasonable hours again. I have a day job. I have a day job that is probably going to require me to leave town and look like exactly the kind of professional I haven't been sleeping like for the last month."  
  
"What happened to the guy who thought three hours was enough sleep?" Langly teased.  
  
"Villette." Reid sighed. "No, that's not fair. It's just the stress. I'll be back to normal in a few days. I'm home. I can just... _be home_ , for a bit. I think he's finally all right, or as close as either of us are going to get. What about you?"  
  
"I just came back from the dead and set my life on fire. I don't know how I'm supposed to feel about this, and I don't really want to. We just-- You know what? I have a lot more sympathy for Byers, all of a sudden, and that's saying a lot. What the fuck am I supposed to do with sixteen siblings? Sixteen _clones_?" Langly rolled over and wrapped himself around Reid's side. "I feel like I should call Mulder. 'Hey, you remember that thing where there were like forty-three of your sister? Yeah, definitely feeling that one.' I keep expecting Auntie to tell me it's the Syndicate."  
  
"You haven't heard back?"  
  
"Not yet. It's old news, which means it's not the kind of thing she's going to pick up in passing. If I wanted to ask her about like... Bollinger or that case Villette just had that fucked up his brain, she'd have it all in a few hours. Something like this takes a while to find, even if she does have more pieces than I do. It's, ah, it's going to be expensive."  
  
"Move your knee." Reid shoved Langly's leg down a few inches. "So, the real question here, is what do we hope to accomplish? I mean, you've found out that there are at least sixteen clones of either you or the same source material, and Byers is making sure they'll get help. Everyone you've connected to this that isn't a victim, in some fashion, is dead. What is to be gained, by continuing down this path?"  
  
"I don't know, but I kind of want to find out. I mean, also it's going to be a great front page piece. Fifty-something years of secret cloning in the United fucking States of America? I mean, the Syndicate, and we're probably going to rehash some of that, but that... I don't know, that was fucked up, but there was a clear purpose, there. Here, we're completely in the dark. Like, Mulder was sure his sister had been abducted by aliens. And, fundamentally, he wasn't wrong. It was a lot more complicated and fucked up than that, but yeah, his sister was used as the base donor for a bunch of alien hybrid clones."  
  
"I'm still fairly deeply disturbed that 'alien hybrid clones' has become something I don't even blink at." Reid tucked Langly's hair back and rubbed the edge of his ear. "So, really, we're in it for the answer, whatever the answer may be. We know what, where, and when, in this case, and some of who, but we're missing how, why, and a larger sense of the involved parties, which I suspect is some part of why. Basic point of profiling -- if you know why, you're halfway to who."  
  
"What, where, and when should've given us who." Langly rubbed his cheek against Reid's shoulder. "And it did. It's just that they're all dead. Or missing. I'm still curious about the missing ones, but there's not a hell of a lot to go on. Someone may not have done as good a job as I'd have done, but they did it _sooner_ , so it's impossible to find the trail."  
  
"Proposed: If you could find them, you'd find the new clinic. You asked about them, right?"  
  
"I asked about _everything_. And I checked the assumptions in _how_ I was asking, because Aunt Copper makes deals like the devil. Still should've let Byers check the list, but that would've meant listening to Byers try to talk me out of doing it." Langly sighed and ran a hand down Reid's chest. "We'll get something. We'll get what we asked for, and if we're lucky, we'll get bit. We get bit, it's Villette's problem. And yours, I guess."  
  
"Interstate assassination contracts? Yeah, I think that's our jurisdiction." Reid tried to look down at Langly, but the top of Langly's head was under his chin. "Can you please avoid getting killed?"  
  
"Hey, I'm _great_ at not getting killed, and you know it."  
  
"I feel like that's been tested a few too many times, recently."  
  
"So, I'm not in Nebraska. I'm here. We set a trap, and we'll see what it catches." Langly absently checked his mail, without moving. "But, that's later. Right now, there's just you, me, and this gigantic bed."  
  
"This really is much more comfortable than the floor of your old bedroom, just in case any doubts remained, there. You've also managed to make it smell like it belongs to me, which is just reminding me how little I smell like myself, right now."  
  
"Should've taken the shower."  
  
"I still intend to shower, as soon as I'm sure it's a better idea than lying down and trying not to breathe too deeply. For now, though, a long nap, in an appropriately soft bed, in a muted sunbeam, with the man I love. And let me tell you, there are a lot of words in that sentence I would not have put in the context of myself, even a year ago." Reid tried to convince himself to close his eyes instead of staring up at the almost-unfamiliar ceiling.  
  
Langly snorted. "Signs your life has improved: someone else finally bought you a bed."


	2. Chapter 2

The text from Hafidha came in while Reid was in the bathroom, and Langly held on to the image for later. Reid was going to love this one. As he waited for Reid to return from the revenge of half a week of bad decisions, he found something like clean clothes and ordered a pizza. For himself. Not that he wouldn't share, but he didn't think he was going to have to.  
  
By the time Reid got back out of the bathroom, freshly showered and visibly thinner than he'd been that morning, Langly was very loudly on the phone, and after a moment, Reid figured out he was talking to Alcea.  
  
"Yeah, I don't really know how to do this whole 'surprise you have a family' thing. ... See, but-- Yeah, but you came _looking_ for us. It's different. And really, it's not anyone you didn't know was there. You just thought we were all dead." Langly snorted and then tipped his head back and groaned. "Oh, my god, don't even joke about that. My dad is dead and buried, and I know it because I dug up his grave."  
  
Reid could hear the squawk from the other end of the line from the other side of the room, where he sat on the corner of the bed and investigated the contents of the shelves surrounding it. Not much, so far, but one shelf that seemed to be at the ideal height for sitting against the other set of shelves to watch held a television and what was probably a stereo, the speakers mounted subtly around the bed, nearer the ceiling. He spotted the VCR easily in the set of black boxes on the other side of the television, and then... probably a DVD player, and was that a _Betamax_? Had Langly seriously-- Of course he had. It was Langly. Always make sure you have the tools for any media you might encounter. Still, Reid had lingering doubts about that one.  
  
Pacing, on the other side of the room, Langly was laughing at something Allie had said. "Anyway, new bed, hot fed. I gotta go. Call your dad."  
  
"How is she?" Reid asked, digging through his bag for his glasses, which he'd misplaced yet again.  
  
"Back out of Muringa's, finally. We got her something a little more secure than that place she was in before -- actually, a lot more secure. Actually, she lives upstairs from you." Langly cleared his throat.  
  
"She _what_?" Reid's eyes rounded.  
  
"She moved upstairs. Not... directly upstairs. I'd never put her where she could hear us, but she's at the other end of the hall on four." Langly shrugged. "It was the best way to make sure she got the kind of security she's going to _need_ until the last of Helmsman's shit gets cleaned up. Not really important. I just called to let her know we were home, if she needed anything. Also called for pizza, so that's incoming." He tossed his phone to Reid, who almost fumbled it. "And you should see the photo Hafs just sent us."  
  
The buttons were all in the same places as the phone Langly had given him, so it didn't take Reid long to find the image. At first, he didn't quite register what was worth a photograph. It was Chaz, in bed, with the blankets piled on -- and at some point recently, he'd clearly gotten a lot more blankets. And then he registered the fact that there was a small, orange cat curled up on the back of Chaz's neck, apparently just as asleep as he was.  
  
"They got a cat? When did they get a cat?"  
  
"Hafs got him, while we were out of town. She says the house just wasn't the same without Chaz sulking in it."  
  
"We do not have the kind of jobs that would make this a good idea." Reid shook his head, eyes still on the picture. "It _is_ pretty cute, though."

* * *

By the time Chaz showed up, Reid was back in his own apartment, returning calls and trying to go through the pile of mail that had gathered while he'd been away. Langly answered the door, rolling his eyes as he spotted the bag of takeout Chaz was carrying, but he stepped out of the way just in time for the sound of Reid raising his voice to filter out into the hall.  
  
"Yes, I probably should have called you, but I'm afraid it slipped my mind when we were packing up the house to get out ahead of the potential incoming hit squad. ... Yes, that is exactly what I mean, and -- you know what, this isn't even your case. It's an ACTF case, and I shouldn't even be talking about-- Possibly because I can't seem to get four consecutive days off without a case falling into my lap! This is not my fault, it's just my _problem_! And I fully intend to do something about it!"  
  
"Prentiss is pissed he came home without calling. He's supposed to be dodging the OPR investigation, until they're done clearing him of interfering with Narcisse. Which is taking way too long. _Obviously_ , he didn't go to see her. It was some other guy, and he's on video, so I don't know what the hell their problem is." Langly relieved Chaz of the bag and shut the door. "And he's not eating, today. He's still sick from yesterday. He's not you, Villette. He's not even me. He shouldn't be eating that much."  
  
"He probably _should_ be eating that much, but he's not used to doing it," Chaz countered, nodding to Reid and grabbing the chair he'd come to think of as his at the table.  
  
Langly unpacked the bag onto the table, checking the contents of the boxes and finding Indian food. "Either way, he spent like three hours complaining he couldn't sleep and another hour in the bathroom. I got him to drink a protein shake, but he's probably not doing real food again until dinner, tomorrow. I think he was eating because _you_ were hungry."  
  
Chaz sighed. "I hope not. I thought we were past that." He pointed at one of the boxes, as Langly opened it. "That one goes in the fridge, if he's not eating. I stopped at that little Indian place he really likes, just to get his favourite. Kind of a welcome back to your real life gift."  
  
"Yeah, I wish someone would welcome me back to _my_ real life, because this clone shit isn't doing it for me." Langly put the box on top of the half-wall so Reid would at least see it. "I liked it better when there was only one of me."  
  
"Langly?" Chaz tipped his chair back, resting it against the wall, and waited for Langly to look up. "There is only one of you. It's why Lakeland doesn't do it for me."  
  
Langly looked entirely unimpressed, as he tossed a plastic fork at Chaz and sat down. "Flattery will get you nowhere other than my pants."  
  
Reid hung up the phone hard enough for the bell in the base to clank. "I'm not dealing with any of this right now." He looked over at the table. "I hope he told you I'm not eating any of that."  
  
Chaz held up his hands and winced. "I heard. Sorry. I'll try to keep that to myself."  
  
"You're usually good at it," Reid finally admitted, making his way toward the kitchen. "What happened?"  
  
"I think you were just me for too long. When you stepped out, the barriers just didn't go all the way back up, and I didn't notice. I was just glad you were eating and sleeping."  
  
" _I_ was pretty glad to be eating and sleeping, to be fair. You were kind of a mess." Reid returned from the kitchen with another protein drink in a tall glass. "I'm trying to convince myself it's not in my best interest to put gin in this."  
  
" _Gin?_ " Langly looked horrified. "Rum."  
  
Chaz nodded. "Agreed, gin is not in your best interest in a chocolate shake. Whiskey, maybe, but not gin."  
  
"I have neither. I have gin, and I have brandy. I may also have ouzo, but that was a gift. It's unopened."  
  
"Definitely not ouzo." Chaz crossed to the small art deco bar that was the first furniture one would trip on coming out of the bedroom. "Brandy?"  
  
"Brandy." Langly got up in the other direction, going for the single-cup coffee maker. "Drink half of what's in that glass, and we'll take care of the rest."  
  
"While this is not the first time I've been ambushed with an unexpected cocktail, it's the first time it's happened in my home. I find it a little disturbing that you both came to the same conclusion, because I know you're not occupying the same mental space." Reid looked curiously across the room at Langly.  
  
"Please, I know what's in your kitchen. If all you've got is gin and brandy, there was only one answer, and we both know that." Langly rolled his eyes.  
  
"I'd say it's a little more surprising that you don't know that," Chaz said, putting the bottle of brandy on the table, "but I'm looking at the dust on this bottle."  
  
"Every once in a great while, I get very drunk and very maudlin, usually on a Friday. By Sunday, I feel much better about the world." Reid shrugged, as if it were the most obvious thing he could've said. "It's been a few years. I think I've had the brandy since shortly after I moved in. The gin is a great deal more recent, as are the bottles of tonic water."  
  
Chaz studied him curiously for a moment, and then laughed. "Because you can't make yourself drink that much gin and tonic."  
  
"Unlike any number of other things I could mix with gin, tonic water doesn't particularly improve the flavour. I'm completely aware of how much I'm drinking and when I should stop." Reid looked at Langly again. "Which means this is the only drink I'm having, this evening, in case you were considering trying to pour me another one."  
  
"I'm concerned enough that you're at a point where you think _gin_ is a good idea," Langly retorted. "If I was going to get you drunk, I'd have brought _beer_. I've seen you drink enough beer to get a little giggly, and you're mostly okay like that. I've only heard stories of you and actual booze, and none of them ended in ways you seemed happy with."  
  
"I still haven't seen the photos from the infamous drinking with Penny episode." Chaz dropped back into his seat and reached for the naan. "And I've seen you dance. I've danced with you. So if photos of you dancing are the worst thing that happened..."  
  
"No, the worst thing that happened is I don't remember most of it, and that's not like me. I _never_ drink that much." Reid leaned forward, resting his face in his hands. "Slightly less inhibited? Sure. Just enough to be a complete emotional wreck for a few hours? Sometimes. But, not so much that the last thing I remember is ordering a second drink, and the next thing I know I'm waking up on the sofa with a bucket next to my head. Garcia says I only had four drinks. I have a dim recollection of that being the case. Of intentionally stopping because four was enough, and I _knew_ that."  
  
"Okay, _that's_ the part of the story I was missing," Langly said, tapping on the coffee maker as if that would speed it up. "I'm gonna say it's a good thing you were out with Penny, because I think you got roofied."  
  
Reid groaned and leaned harder against his hands. "Thank you, I am never drinking in another bar. But, that doesn't make any sense. We weren't up at the bar, we were at a table, and it wasn't so crowded I wouldn't have noticed someone getting that close to us. And on top of that? It's me. Why would anyone--"  
  
Chaz stopped chewing to interrupt. "Spencer? You know better."  
  
"I wish I didn't," Reid muttered into his hands. "It's still unlikely. It's more likely the drinks were just heavier than I expected. Put enough fruit in something and it's harder to taste how strong it is. The point is, I made an ass of myself in public, and I can't remember doing it. It's not an experience I'm ever going to look back on fondly, if only because I can barely look back on it at all."  
  
"Those photos are still hot. You honestly look like you're having a great time in them, even if you can't remember it, now." Langly paused, reaching for the images and flipping them across the back of his eyelids. "You don't look confused in any of them, and you don't look like you're off balance, so I'm pretty comfortable saying you were close enough to your right mind to be hot, _at the time_. The rest of it might've caught up with you later. You remembered to get yourself a barf bucket, so..."  
  
"Moderately disinhibited, but not otherwise noticeably impaired, with little or no memory of the events, the next day." Chaz stopped eating and watched Reid, who still had his face buried in his hands.  
  
"I was not _drugged_ , Chaz. That doesn't make _sense_." Reid looked at Chaz over the tips of his fingers. "No one knew where we were going. We didn't recognise anyone when we got there. I wasn't involved in Fitzgerald, yet. Narcisse didn't have a reason to be aware I existed for _weeks_."  
  
"You're missing the obvious reason. You're a good-looking guy, in your mid-30s, and you look younger and a lot less dangerous than you are. It really could just have been that someone saw you, wanted to take you home, and wasn't prepared to take no for an answer." Chaz tried to look sympathetic, but he was pretty sure he'd managed something between a muppet and a stepped-on frog. "It might not have been about you, personally, at all."  
  
"That doesn't make me feel any better about it. Impersonal objectification isn't really a step up from personal vendetta."  
  
"It's less likely to happen again?" Chaz shrugged. "Wrong place, wrong time. But, you were there with Penny, and you got home safely."  
  
"I'm still not sure it happened in the first place. Why is it so hard to believe I just drank myself stupid?"  
  
"Because I've seen you drink, and he's seen the inside of your brain." Langly slid the coffee onto the table as he sat back down. "You're not describing blackout drunk. I've _been_ blackout drunk."  
  
"The yeti waitress," Reid remembered. "But, what you're forgetting is that I'm extremely skilled at looking a lot less intoxicated than I am. So, yes, I probably was completely coherent, if maybe a little more talkative and a little less dexterous right up until I passed out. Vodka? Cherry stems? It's been a lot of years, but I'm exceptional at not looking drunk in public, or at least not as drunk as I am."  
  
"Yeah, but you remember the vodka and cherry stems. You remember the girls making you stop drinking."  
  
"I'm older. The brain's a little less resilient." Reid pushed the bottle of brandy away. "And I think I'm done with bars and drinking for a while, not that either is a significant part of my life, so thanks for that."  
  
Langly cleared his throat and had the presence of mind to look guilty. "Hey, look, it's a mountain yeti riding a four-horsepower subject change!"  
  
"Prentiss say anything about Narcisse?" Chaz asked, claiming the coffee Langly had made.  
  
"She's sticking to the new story, but she'll only talk to Grafton, who's still insisting he didn't go to see her, but he's definitely taking her calls, now. Nobody's sure what happened, but there's a decent chance that one of two things will come of this: either Grafton just completely blew the case, or Narcisse is going to try an insanity plea." Reid seemed to fold in on himself as he picked up his glass and sipped at the protein drink. "I'm still not quite supposed to be anywhere near the east coast, but there's no way to make that official. It's just, I quote, 'not in my best interest', until they figure out what's wrong with Grafton, and whether I managed to threaten Narcisse so she'd change her story. Unfortunately for all of us, _I live here_."  
  
"I'm not really going to feel better until she's dead and I've identified the body," Langly admitted. "She's a serious problem, and she's not going to stop being one, just because she's temporarily telling a new story. This is what, the fourth? The fifth? It doesn't matter that this one's true, and it's what you've been saying since the beginning. She's smearing the story by admitting to it."  
  
None of this, of course, was what Chaz had meant, when he got involved. All he'd done was convince her to confess, to tell the truth in whatever words suited her, as long as it was the truth. And now, they still had a problem, it was just a different problem. "She's admitted to the crime she was arrested while committing, that's got to count for something."  
  
"We all hope it does. But, it's not going to do much, at this point, unless and until this makes it to trial, and her lawyers are going to delay as long as possible. I'm really expecting an insanity plea, and I'm really sure she can make it work." Reid's lips thinned, and he stared into his glass. "Her line, right now, is that yes, this did happen the way I described it, but she's perfectly justified in her actions. Which they're going to say means she's not capable of distinguishing right from wrong."  
  
"Spencer, she's not walking away from this. Even an insanity plea is going to put her in a high-security facility, it's just Idlewood lite, instead of prison."  
  
"Difference in the way people are handled," Langly pointed out. "I can almost promise you she'll walk out the front door inside a few months, if it even takes her that long. She's already been trying to break out of prison, but no one can prove she's doing it. Listen, trying to keep her locked up is going to work about as well as it would on me or Hafs. The only difference is Narcisse actually needs hardware to connect to the network, and _she can get it_. She's not allowed access to electronics, now, and she's still gotten into parts of the prison's network. She's just not me, so she can't get into the part that would let her out. Yet. And I promise you that's a 'yet'. All it takes is one moron plugging their phone into a machine with access to the locks."  
  
"Mountain yeti," Reid breathed, still staring into his drink. "Subject change."  
  
Langly looked at Chaz. "Heard you got a cat. Pics or it didn't happen." He tipped his head toward Reid, not mentioning that Hafidha had already sent a picture of the cat.  
  
" _Hafs_ got a cat while we were gone. She says she found it dumped on our patio, and I am just going to choose to believe that's true. She also named it Schmengy Paws." Chaz slid his phone across the table, a photo of a surprised-looking orange kitten on the screen.  
  
"She named it _what_?" Langly blinked owlishly.  
  
"Schmengy Paws. It's better without context. Trust me."  
  
"A cat? With how often you two are out of town?" Reid slid the phone closer and flipped through a few pictures. "It's adorable, though. I just can't see it being a good idea."  
  
"Not really my first cat," Chaz admitted, "even if the other one wasn't really my cat. Cats can mostly take care of themselves for a few days at a time, and whoever's stuck in the office gets to take care of Duke's fish, anyway. Now, I guess, they can feed our cat, too."  
  
"I can take the cat, if you're out of town, Villette. I'm way the hell more entertaining than an empty house." Langly rolled his eyes and eyed Chaz derisively.  
  
Chaz blinked like this was the first time it had crossed his mind, and after a moment, he nodded. "I might take you up on that. But, your house is huge and this cat is small. And I'm not really sure your place is cat-proofed..."  
  
"My place is drunk Byers proofed, and all the doors are blast-proof and closed, unless someone's using them. Whatever skills Mr Schmengy thinks he has, the worst he's going to do is get stuck behind one of the monitors, and those are on swivels. Maybe not easy for a cat to get out of, but if he meows, we'll find him pretty quick. If we absolutely have to, we can turn on the infrared, to find the little warm springy thing. Not what that system was meant to do, but it'll work."  
  
"Seriously? Your security system will register a _kitten_?"  
  
"If I tell it to, yeah. Come on, you're talking to the guy who tuned the infrared goggles so we could find the mice that moved into that place before we did. I am not going to lose your cat."  
  
"You're still going to have to convince Hafs."  
  
"Do we know," Reid asked, finally looking up from the cat photos, "if animals can become anomalous after long-term exposure?"  
  
Langly stopped, fork halfway to his mouth. Chaz stopped chewing and stared like a deer in headlights.  
  
"There haven't been any studies," Chaz admitted, "but it's because there hasn't been any evidence of animals exhibiting anomalous behaviours. I'd guess no, but the distance between conversion and either death or Idlewood is short, for most people."  
  
"Something to consider. Your cat may become the only cat Langly _could_ lose."


	3. Chapter 3

Monday came too soon, but Reid had to admit he felt better than he had since before he'd gotten shot on the West raid. Something about sleeping in a bed that wasn't grotesquely soft and didn't smell like industrial laundry. Waking up to warm light against the midnight dark of the room just felt like he was still dreaming, like the calm and quiet stretched out into forever. Still, if he was actually going to start sleeping in the corner apartment, he had to let Langly put the door in. He couldn't be out in the hall before his first cup of coffee, looking like the tail end of a walk of shame.  
  
"Your midwestern vacation must've done you some good," JJ said to him, as he crossed the floor to his desk. "You're looking a lot better than you were the last time I saw you."  
  
"The last time you saw me, I had something horrible and viral, I hadn't slept in days, and Frank had almost been murdered by a serial killer. At that point, I probably could've had a shower and a hot cup of coffee and looked substantially better." Jacket on the chair, bag in the bottom right file drawer, coffee to the right of the monitor, check the locked drawer for chocolate... Everything was where he'd left it, including the cushion on his chair, and Reid finally sat down. "But, no, Nebraska was not a vacation, and I got looped into another ACTF case that isn't actually over. It's just... percolating in a way that's best served by us being nowhere near Nebraska."  
  
"ACTF, which means you're not talking about it," JJ guessed. "But, how's Frank? Speaking of not looking so good..."  
  
"Frank has definitely recovered, and he's doing relatively well. Things in Nebraska were a little bit difficult for him, but a lot less difficult than the last day of that case in Idaho." Reid looked up from checking another desk drawer. "It worked, but that was not a good idea."  
  
"It was a great idea. This is why you're not supposed to date your co-workers, Spence." She leaned her hip against the corner of his desk. "Really, though, how are _you_ doing?"  
  
"The next time I take a vacation, I'm leaving my phone at home and not telling anyone where I'm going. I'm going to spend a week in the middle of nowhere, by myself."  
  
"Not even Frank? You two okay?"  
  
"We're great! It's really not his fault! I just..." Reid sighed and turned on his monitor, just to have something to do with his hands. "I'll tell you the part of my 'midwestern vacation' that I can talk about. So, Frank and Fitz bought a house from -- you remember the forensic pathologist on the corn case? From her. Dr Langly."  
  
JJ, who'd been there when Reid was first sent to meet with 'Frank' gave him a long, slow look that said everything she wasn't going to.  
  
"So, that's why we were in Nebraska. We went to check the property and get some repairs started. Normal things you do when you buy a house. Morgan does it all the time. Morgan doesn't have these problems!" Reid took a breath and sipped his coffee. "But, we've only been there a few days when we're, ah... checking out the barn, and the neighbours' teenage kids show up, not realising the property's been sold, to check on their marijuana greenhouse in the back of the barn. So, that turns into an assault, and they get arrested by the local fire department, because no one can find the sheriff's night deputy, and the next night Villette shows up because he's on _psych leave_. A few days later, we're interviewing possible victims in Lincoln, on a non-consensual human experimentation case. And there are plumbers pulling out the walls."  
  
JJ covered her mouth, but the amusement still showed in her eyes. "If the case was in Lincoln, how was that not the local field office's problem?"  
  
"It's an ACTF case, and there's only one ACTF team in the entire country. And Villette and I were standing _right there_ when it broke." Reid left out the part where the case was the real reason he and Langly were in Nebraska to begin with. Neither of them had expected it to turn into what it had. "Apparently, it goes back about fifty years, and the ACTF has been trying to get a foothold since... well, it was one of Sol Todd's pet projects, before he joined the Bureau. So, there we were, in the middle of nowhere, Nebraska..." He sighed. "I'm tired. I want three more cups of coffee and a nice normal case."  
  
"You want _normal_ , I just sent a profile and some advice to Louisiana. Looks like another Seven Deadly Sins."  
  
"Second or third to 'all women who look like my mother and/or ex girlfriend must pay for her sins'," Reid remarked across his coffee cup. "You think they can handle it?"  
  
"Oh, yeah. They're doing everything right. They'll get him faster than we would, if we went down, because they know the area and the people." JJ raised a hand as Alvez came through the door. "Got one up in Baltimore we might want. Seventeen victims, so far."  
  
"I'm sorry, _seventeen_? How did it take them this long to call us?" Reid looked up, horrified.  
  
"They didn't notice they had a serial. All the victims were obviously long-term heroin addicts, so when the deaths looked drug related, nobody looked too closely. But, the ME's office has to hold the bodies for a couple of weeks, in case they can find someone to claim them, so when one of the pathologists started looking to see if there was a bad batch going around -- she wanted to see if a public health warning was in order -- she realised none of them died of opiate overdoses. And that was about three days ago, and then she had to convince the police there was actually a case, so that just got to me at about four this morning, actually. There's a guy in Vice up there who's absolutely insisting we take a look."  
  
" _Seventeen people_ and nobody noticed. How long has this been going on?"  
  
"Less than three weeks, by the cremation log." JJ nodded at the look on Reid's face. "Yeah. This one's moving fast. And normally, I'd leave this to the locals, but Baltimore really dropped the ball on this one."  
  
"Do we have anything more pressing?" Reid asked, skimming the subject lines on his email with one eye. Nothing important. There never was, since he kept his email address off his business cards. A few all staff bulletins, updates to fugitive lists -- the usual morning stuff, but a month of it.  
  
"I haven't finished going through everything that came in, this morning, but right now, this one tops the list."  
  
"Send it to me. I'll get started, while you look through the rest. If you don't find anything else, we can be on this by this afternoon." Reid managed a small smile. "I'll take the blame, if Prentiss asks."

* * *

Reid called Langly from the highway, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat, like he tended to if he was going to talk and drive. He supposed he could've gotten one of those on-dash phone holders, but that would mean admitting he used the thing. And it would ruin that nice vintage dash line.  
  
"Hey, just calling to say--"  
  
"You're not making it home for dinner?" Langly teased, obviously having half-expected this call.  
  
"Actually, I might! I'm only going to Baltimore!"  
  
"And _you're_ driving?" Langly could hear that he was on speaker, and there was only one reason for that.  
  
"I took my car. The rest of the team's driving up officially, but there has never been a case where another car would not have been a good idea. Besides, of all the vehicles available to us, _my_ car does not scream 'cop'."  
  
"Your car screams undercover fed. Well-maintained vintage car with a DC license plate?"  
  
"Plenty of people who aren't feds live in DC." The slightest irritation crept into Reid's voice. "But, this isn't why I called you. I called to say I trust you to put the door in, so that when I come home, I don't have to walk into the hall if I don't want to sleep in the chair."  
  
"Yeah, I can do that. Where do you want it?"  
  
Reid took a deep breath. "I don't know. You know where the wiring and the pipes are. You also know how to make it... less obvious."  
  
"You don't want anybody knowing there's another way in or out."  
  
"I don't want anyone to realise I'm now living in something a little less the size of a shoebox, with no reasonable explanation of how or why that happened, that won't end in another OPR investigation."  
  
"I'm pretty sure your boyfriend's best friend buying the building you live in without consulting you is a pretty good reason that nobody can talk too much shit about. It's a door to an adjoining apartment that's in my name, not yours. The worst they can smack you for is getting permission to put in a connecting door to my apartment. Mine. Which is in my name. Because it belongs to me, not you. So, there's nothing they can say about you taking unfair advantage of the situation. Not that's going to have any real _meaning_."  
  
"Point stands. I don't want to advertise that the door is there, for at _least_ the reasons you pointed out. It's not quite a saferoom, but it's a better choice than the _bathroom_ , if anything happens."  
  
"Again. If anything happens again. You're worried someone else is going to try to break in."  
  
"Ah, let's see, Langly, first there was Narcisse, and then Helmsman's robot murder spiders? I think it's a valid concern at this point!"  
  
"I'm not arguing that it's not going to happen. I'm pointing out that it's already happened before, and we probably need to consider ways to ensure it _doesn't_ happen again. And to extend that level of structural security to the whole building, because, like you keep saying, it's not fair if you get it and nobody else does. And, you know, that's how we do business, anyway. But, the windows are solid. Nothing's getting in the windows, and if anything gets through the door, it's either going to take out part of the wall, or I'm going to be _really_ surprised. I'm pretty sure it's the next best thing to impossible to photo through the windows, too, without some fairly expensive thermal imaging gear, and the windows have defogging coils, so even that's going to be harder than usual. The only things I can still improve on are the walls, the inner doors, and possibly some kind of concealed escape route which is a little difficult because you're on the second floor."  
  
"The _walls_?" Reid sounded surprised.  
  
"Your walls are crap, Reid. The neighbours shouldn't be _able_ to listen to us screw. And on top of that? You could punch through them with a battering ram, without it even requiring effort. I'd have to start on the ground floor, though, because Byers says the structural walls need to be reinforced first, or the building will fall in if we try to put steel liners in. But, we'll get there. Like I said, you've learned how to live like you're FBI, but you just stepped into my world, and you're better off living like you're CIA. There's scarier shit out there than serial killers. There's alien hybrid clones, the Anomaly, and entire invisible agencies doing black-ops work that makes _me_ look like an amateur. I just want to make sure most of what's out there _can't get into your apartment_. I just want you to know you're safe _somewhere_. There's not a lot you want, but I can probably give you that."  
  
"I used to feel safe at home, which was perhaps not one of my most well-informed opinions, as you keep reminding me. And I appreciate what you're trying to do, but... you really don't have to do any of this. I've spent a very long time living there, and a very long time sleeping on that couch. I've survived it this long, so the probabilities are good I'll continue to do so."  
  
"None of this is because I have to, Reid. You know what I have to do? I have to keep _myself_ from getting killed, but that's not really that difficult, most of the time, and now that I have sixteen clones, it's going to be even easier. I want you to be happy. I want you to be safe. Yeah, I know the job's going to get you shot. The job's going to get _me_ shot. The job _has_ gotten us both shot, let's be real. But, there's a difference between working and going to bed at night, and I just... I know you love that place, and I want to make sure it's good enough to protect you. Because I like you. I mean, I love you, too, but that's got nothing to do with it. And if you're going to feel guilty about me spending money on the whole building and everyone in it, because, you know, _everyone_ deserves to live somewhere safe and comfortable, then you can pick me up a catering tray of mac and cheese from that Jamaican place that makes it with like half a cup of cayenne and the breadcrumbs on top. It's in Baltimore, _you're_ in Baltimore."  
  
"This is a very expensive way to bribe me to buy you dinner, you know," Reid teased, picking out the safest part of Langly's ramble, the part he was willing to consider while driving.  
  
"Yeah, well, it's an improvement on you thinking I'm treating you like a hooker, right?"  
  
"I'm--! I'm not--! You know what? I'm not having this conversation while I'm driving."


	4. Chapter 4

A month really was a lot of email, Chaz had noticed, not for the first time. He'd been away from his desk for this long, before, but it had been a while, and he'd forgotten how everything just piled up when he was ignoring it. Well, at least some of that hadn't really been ignoring so much as actively working a case and not willing to put in the extra effort to filter out the garbage for when he got back. Either way, he had serious doubts that he'd get through it all before he ended up back out on something else. Possibly the clone case. _Probably_ the clone case.  
  
Trash, trash, trash, forward it to Langly, trash, read that at some point but not now, forward it to Langly, forward it to Hafs, trash, trash, mark read and ignore...  
  
"Chaz?"  
  
He looked up as innocently as he could manage to Falkner eyeing his desk. "Yeeees?"  
  
"There are any number of things that I could say to you, right now, about regulations and health concerns, but I know you, so I'll skip to the most important thing I could say." She paused, drawing her eyes away from his desk, to look him in the eye. "Why is there a cat on your desk?"  
  
"Because it's a very small cat. It's a kitten. It's Hafidha's kitten, and we can't leave him home by himself until he's a little older. We'd rather he finish imprinting on us, before we leave him alone with the furniture, so today, I get to carry him around with me."  
  
"Is that Schmengy Paws?" Lau leaned over Chaz's shoulder as she unwrapped her scarf, still snowy from outside. "How's he doing? Does he still have those scabs on his feet?"  
  
Falkner looked from one to the other and then back to the cat. "Schmengy...?"  
  
"Paws." Chaz rubbed one eye, looking entirely put upon. "Don't ask. I wish I didn't know."

* * *

"Hey, do we have a guy in Arizona?" Langly asked, tipping his chair back and balancing with one knee against his desk. "Villette sent me all the nutcases and conspiracies that _didn't_ look like they were probably his problem. Dude jumps off a building and bounces, his problem. Sasquatch eats the neighbour's dog, our problem. At least until it becomes his problem."  
  
"Sasquatch ate the neighbour's dog in Arizona?" Frohike asked, without even looking over his shoulder.  
  
"This one's, ah... another chupacabra sighting. And you know as well as I do, with shit like this, it's never chupacabra. The real story is whatever it actually is, which is never any more reasonable than it being chupacabra. I don't think we can get it for the next issue -- there's no way we're going to pull it together that fast -- but we can write it up for the next one."  
  
"Yeah, not if we're not doing it ourselves, which is still not a good idea. Prominent businessmen who look remarkably like dead newspapermen start showing up at cryptid sightings and reports of undead Elvis? Dead in a week." Frohike tapped a pencil against the edge of his coffee cup in a way he knew would drive Byers up the wall. "Isn't Bandit in Arizona?"  
  
"You want to send the guy with a missing arm after chupacabra?" Langly drawled, hoping his glasses weren't going to slide off his forehead if he stayed bent back like this.  
  
"You just said it's not chupacabra," Frohike reminded him.  
  
"Doesn't really matter if it's a real chupacabra or some nut out there molesting goats. You can't send a dude with one arm into a dangerous situation with nothing but a camera. Photoing Elvis impersonators? Yeah, great. Location shots? Fine. I just don't think this is a good idea," Langly argued, listening to the springs in the chair creak, and trying to figure out how much longer he could hold this position before his leg twitched and the chair snapped back.  
  
"You used to go after guys with guns without a hell of a lot more than a camera," Frohike reminded him.  
  
"I also have both arms, Frohike."  
  
"You also _ran away_ , when people started shooting, usually. You don't really need two arms if you're just going to run screaming."  
  
"Rude." Langly rolled his eyes. "Fine. Offer it to him. If he doesn't want it for the obvious reasons, see if he knows anybody who does."

* * *

Reid hung back as JJ introduced the team and asked to see the lead detective on the case. They were given directions he was pretty sure didn't end anywhere inside the building, but that might just have been his ambient cynicism showing, which he was pretty sure said something about him that he didn't want to think about right then. Still, JJ got them to the right department.  
  
"We're looking for Detective Montoya," JJ said, her crisp voice trained to carry after years of speaking on camera.  
  
A man stood up from where his face had been concealed behind a screen. "I'm Vic Montoya," he said, crossing the large room to meet them. "You the FBI?"  
  
And that was when Reid realised he knew the man. He could see the flicker of recognition, and they both ignored it. If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that he didn't want to answer questions about where he'd met the man he'd known as Vittorio. Once again, he didn't shake hands as the introductions went around, and the amusement in Detective Montoya's eyes was clear.  
  
"So, we don't have a lot of space right now, but we're going to set you up in the briefing room on this side. You're going to hit a lot of resistance on this one, and I apologise for that up front. Not a lot of people believe this is happening, that these murders are murders or, worse, that the crime is worth investigating, even if they are. You know how it gets, sometimes. More important people, larger operations, who the hell has time for something like this." Montoya shook his head as he opened a door and waved them through. "This room's even got windows, which is great when you have to show up for a meeting at eight in the morning when you got off at five, but it's not so great if you're worried about photos. I'd put the boards in front of the windows, so you're working at the one angle nobody's going to get a shot at, unless they come in the door."  
  
Rossi tipped his head at Montoya and raised an eyebrow at Prentiss. "He's good."  
  
"You'd be surprised how many people don't think about that, when they're not on the ground floor," Reid told Montoya, unpacking Rossi's observation.  
  
"It's different in Vice." Montoya shrugged. "You see a lot more pictures and bullets going through windows from really unexpected places."  
  
JJ and Alvez conferred silently and stepped away to rearrange the room a bit, moving chairs out of the way and bringing the two tables together from opposite ends of the room.  
  
"We got what you sent us, but I'd be interested to hear what you _didn't_ send us." Reid's eyebrow edged up a few millimetres, his head cocking almost imperceptibly. But, Montoya knew Chaz, and Reid knew he'd be able to read it. "Things you're not sure of, things you don't have the evidence for, but they'd make sense here. We know what can be proved. Tell us what can't."  
  
Montoya smiled thinly and nodded slowly. "You know how this works. Let me go over what we do know, as we go, just to make sure we're all looking at it from the same angle, when I start putting things around the edges."  
  
He closed the door and crossed the room, pulling down the shade and pushing a chalkboard that looked like it had survived multiple renovations in front of that window. He started with a list of names -- the victims. "All of these people are -- were -- addicts. We know them. We run into them, from time to time -- busting their dealers, picking them up for petty theft, the occasional fight, public intoxication, you know how it goes. But, they're pretty familiar faces. Perea was actually Grandstone's CI, so she's even more familiar. And most of them were heroin addicts at some point, whether they stuck with it or not. All of them were into some kind of opioid -- Larrimore was into morphine, of all things. That's a lot harder to get, around here." He drew a box around the next set of names "Winchell, Astoria, Braden, and Massey preferred oxy -- they just liked pills better, and I can't blame them. Needles just..." He shuddered and moved on, drawing another box. "These were primarily heroin because it's easy, but they'd always find the money for medical-grade injectables, if anyone was selling. They were in bad shape, on a lot of levels, but they were trying to take care of themselves. Definitely the clean needle side of the crowd, you know? The rest, as far as we know, never moved away from heroin, or if they did, we didn't hear about it. But, the thing all these people have is common besides the opioids is that none of them are what we'd consider functional addicts. _Were_. It's still a little hard to believe they're _all_ dead. One or two, that happens. All of them at once? It's not right."  
  
Clearing his throat, Montoya went on, drawing symbols next to the names. "But, they weren't really the kind of people who could hold down straight jobs. Some of them had homes, but a lot of them didn't. Here's the ones with a roof over their heads, here's the prostitutes, here's the couriers, the beggars, we think Massey might've been a blind contact for small-time gun sales... Like I said, Perea's a CI... The thing is, though, they don't all run in the same circles. There's nowhere from a friend or location perspective that they all overlap. I can't get closer than three degrees of separation, and I can only get that passing through _dealers_ , some of whom were already dead or off the street when this started."  
  
"Reid?" Prentiss raised her eyebrows.  
  
"Map." Reid nodded. Once Montoya was done explaining, he'd get the locations they didn't have, which was anything other than the places the bodies were found.  
  
"Next problem, they didn't die of opioid overdoses." Montoya put down the chalk and looked at his hand, realising he didn't have anything to wipe it on. "They wouldn't even have been high with the trace amounts found in their bodies. I mean, you and me? We'd be wasted. These guys, not so much. But, they all had the same ... something else in their blood. And I say 'something else', because we haven't identified it, yet, but the doc tells me it's not even slightly related to heroin. It would not have similar effects; it would not interact with the body in a similar fashion. She _thinks_ we're looking at a stimulant, but it's not one we've run into before. She's got somebody at the university taking a closer look."  
  
Montoya continued to glance around the room, holding his hand away from his black clothes.  
  
Reid pulled a travel pack of tissues out of an outer compartment of his bag and tossed it to Montoya, with a judgemental glance around the room.  
  
"Budget cuts. I heard we almost lost funding for toilet paper, this year." Montoya rolled his eyes, as he wiped the chalk off his hands. "But, the thing that makes us sure this is murder, and not just someone selling the wrong baggies, is that every one of the victims has a needle mark on the back of their neck, which is a weird-ass place, but Sherazi -- our doc -- tells me intramuscular is a valid way to deliver certain stimulants. And it's definitely intramuscular. She says it misses the spine completely and doesn't get near the blood vessels on the sides of the neck. Still, it's pretty close to the brain, and I have to wonder if that's the point, but we don't even know what this stuff is."  
  
"That's the curious part, isn't it?" Lewis observed. "If this is a new chemical, it's harder to guess if the intention was murder or testing a potential recreational drug. Either way, the victim dies, but the motive is very different. Are there signs of restraint?"  
  
Montoya shook his head. "It doesn't look like any of the victims were tied down, and it doesn't look like any of them were tased or got in a fight. There's no signs of a struggle anywhere near the time of death, just this needle mark with a higher density of the same stuff in the blood."  
  
Reid stood silent, eyes closed, visualising what Montoya was describing. "How high on the neck? Obviously the injection missed the blood vessels, but you're right that it's not far from the arteries leading into the skull. Depending on the rate and means of absorption, it _could_ be relatively swift method of delivering a drug to the brain, without actually puncturing the brain or an artery. Which would mean, at the very least, that we're looking for someone who _doesn't want_ to stab people in the brain. And that's a lot less useful than it sounded in my head, because even puncturing the brain stem wouldn't guarantee immediate death, necessarily. So, we're back to 'this killer either doesn't want people to die, or wants them to die in an extremely specific fashion.'"  
  
"You just got here, man." Montoya looked amused. "Give yourself a minute."


	5. Chapter 5

The pathologist looked like somebody's Indian grandmother, and her eyes sparkled when she saw the surprise on Alvez's face. "Don't look at me like that, young man. I forgot more about death before you were shaving your chin than you will ever know," she teased, winking at Rossi, before she got straight to business. "Juniper Astoria was the first one that came to me. If I'd gotten one of the earlier ones, maybe so many wouldn't have died."  
  
"It's almost one a day for the last, what, almost three weeks?" Alvez kept his eyes on the body between them.  
  
"It probably is one every day. I think we haven't found them all. People like this, sometimes they're never found, and when they are, sometimes they're never identified. It's only because we're required to hold the bodies for a time that I managed to find the evidence of these killings, to prove this killer didn't stop at one." Dr Sherazi lifted one shoulder and half turned the body, pulling down the magnifier. "Look here. It's subtle, but I bet you can still find it."  
  
"There's a ring around it. That's not a small hole." Alvez observed. "And they didn't see this on the others?"  
  
"It's easier to see, now," Sherazi assured him. "The skin is starting to retract, so the hole looks bigger. But, there was no reason to look there," she explained, setting the body back down when Rossi nodded, and turning the arms palm up, "when the more obvious answer was here. Not just her arms, but down her legs, ankles, feet. The police knew Miss Astoria, and with no wounds apparent, her death looked enough like a heroin overdose to the untrained observer that it would've been marked down as an accidental overdose -- sad, but the victim's own fault."  
  
"But, you saw something else," Rossi prompted, looking up from the scars and still-open wounds, wondering if they'd been wise to take Reid out for this one.  
  
"I did not like the vomit, the bruise traces bothered me, and the smell was wrong. There is a smell associated with a drug, as it passes through the body, and this body may have had the opium-type smell, but it wasn't the first thing. It wasn't strong enough to be the cause of death." Sherazi looked up at Alvez. "And you're wondering how I smell anything at all beyond the smells of old meat and voided bowels, but you ask anyone who's worked drug deaths for a long time. You know it. You smell the difference, and it bothers you when it doesn't smell like the ambulance paperwork says it should." She shrugged casually. "So, I looked closer. Maybe I had other cases waiting, but they were just as dead. It wasn't as if they would huff and stomp and walk out if I took another hour or two to make sure this was truly a heroin death, like they thought it was. And it wasn't."  
  
Sherazi held up a hand to forestall any interruptions. "I can't show you all of these things, because by now pieces have been sent to the lab and the blood has finished settling, but if we start at the top of the body and move down, we begin with the cerebral haemorrhage. The capillary bursting is evident in the eyes, the blood that looks like it's from the nose in the photographs, and some strange bruising in the extremities that was already fading by the time the body got to me. I peeled the skin anyway, after I saw the brain, just to get a confirmation. Then there's the injection site in the back of the neck. There's also extensive damage to the heart, at least some of it attributable to, er, the muscle tissue breaking down, to judge by the condition of the urine found in the clothing and the minuscule amount recovered from the bladder. I was ready to call it an amphetamine overdose, but it wasn't quite anything I recognised. The tests suggest it's an amphetamine or pseudo-amphetamine of some sort, but that's as close as I can get, here, so I sent a sample to a friend in the Chemistry department, and she's still trying to figure it out. Unfortunately, at this point, the sample is just intact enough to tell us what it's _not_."  
  
"And they all show the same symptoms? All seventeen?" Rossi asked, looking at the doctor instead of the body.  
  
"And it's just those seventeen. Four more really were heroin overdoses, but I knew that, when I saw them, and the tests bore it out." Sherazi paused, looking up at Rossi very intently. "These people died of something another person injected into them, but there are no signs they were assaulted or restrained. It is possible, still, they were threatened in some way, but I can tell you that no force was used during or immediately before the injection."  
  
"What if they were surprised?" Alvez ventured, eyeing Rossi, but Rossi was already shaking his head.  
  
"When you are surprised from behind, Agent, what do you do?" Sherazi asked.  
  
"Turn around. If I can't turn, because someone's holding on, then I fight them." Alvez paused and considered that. "So, that would've become violence, even just for a few seconds. You've got a point. Which means these people may have been willing victims of some sort. They were probably convinced it was a drug they wanted, and by the time they figured it out, it would've been too late. And that means someone's out there making _offers_."  
  
"Which means we need someone undercover to accept that offer." Rossi nodded. "And whoever it is can't be seen questioning people about the deaths."

* * *

  
"Me," Reid offered, turning away from the map he was working on, with no small amount of resignation in his face, when Alvez explained the plan. "You need _me_."  
  
"Spence, _no_." JJ's eyes rounded in surprise and horror.  
  
"Yeah, don't take this the wrong way man, but you don't look--" Alvez started, but Prentiss cut him off.  
  
"No, he's... We know he's believable. He's done this before." It was the most tactful thing she could say. "It just wasn't a good situation, last time, and we nearly lost him."  
  
Reid eyed her with relief. That was a better response than the one he'd been prepared to deliver.  
  
"And it's still a bad idea, Reid. OPR will absolutely shit a brick, if I let you do this," Prentiss went on.  
  
"I'm well aware that I'm going to lose my job if I handle this incorrectly -- not 'could', but 'will'. But, that's not going to happen."  
  
Montoya looked around the room. "You're right. It's not. We've already got people in a much better position for something like this. They've been working here for years, and they definitely have the connections."  
  
"Reid's not from around here. That could go either way." Rossi shrugged, but gestured at the board. "But, all the victims are long-time locals. If you've already got people deep undercover, they might be more appealing targets, assuming you can let them know what's going on."  
  
"We'll do interviews around the places the bodies were found. I can pass a message like that. Nobody's going to think we're out there looking to talk to just certain people, if we make a big deal of talking to everyone." Montoya watched Reid for a few seconds, and then nodded, coming to a conclusion. "I want you with me. Show me what you think is believable for 'functional addict', and I'll give you a Baltimore badge to flash. Some of them might talk to you, even if they won't talk to me, but I don't think we want it getting around you're a fed. Not yet."  
  
"You want me to look like a _Vice detective_ with a habit?" Now Reid looked uncertain. "I'm not sure..." He caught the challenge in Montoya's eyes and met it. "I need to make a call. What time do you want me, and where?"

* * *

"This is not a good idea," Prentiss insisted, watching Rossi as he went through the known associates lists and tried to draw out the web of who knew who.  
  
"He can take care of himself, Emily. And even then, he's going to be out there with Detective Montoya. The worst thing that's going to happen is someone might take a shot at them, and you can say that about any case."  
  
"You know that's not what I'm worried about."  
  
"You're worried about _tomorrow_ night. You're worried about what's going to happen when he's supposed to be sleeping." Rossi looked up from his work, a finger marking his place in the list. "Prison. He'll be fine."  
  
Prentiss sighed and pressed a thumb against her forehead. "I want you to be right, Dave. I really want you to be right."  
  
"Trust him. Reid's extremely cautious, and very caught up in his own self-control. He hasn't forgiven himself for that lapse. He's not going to repeat it."  
  
"I'd remind you not to profile our co-workers, but thank you."  
  
Rossi went back to his work. "You're viewing him as a suspect in a crime that has not yet been committed, instead of as a friend willing to put past mistakes to good use. One of us had to unpack that."

* * *

When Reid walked into the diner with one arm around a blonde woman, it took a moment for anyone at the table he was headed for to recognise him. JJ looked like she wasn't sure what to make of this transformation. Alvez looked stunned. Montoya looked a little too amused as he stood up and pulled over another chair.  
  
"Who's the girl?" he asked, wondering how the question would be answered this time, as Reid sat down next to JJ, watch clacking against the table as it spun close around his wrist.  
  
"Allow me to introduce Mary. She's a good friend with an interest in making sure everything goes well, and the necessary equipment to make that easier." Reid's eyes flicked around the room before settling on Montoya's, all the explanation he needed, he hoped, for the lack of a proper introduction.  
  
JJ shot Reid a confused look and then returned her gaze to Mary. "I didn't know you were in town!"  
  
"Chaz needed a hand with something. I have two." Mary held up her hands and wiggled her fingers, knowing that implying she was in town on an ACTF case would stop any further questions. "When Spencer called me with what, I have to say, was the weirdest request I've gotten since I met you guys, and I thought I knew weird after the pig thing, I had to drive up and see this for myself. But, we got it. Just subtle enough it's not obvious if you're not looking for it."  
  
Reid left his cuff unbuttoned when he reached for the carafe of coffee to pour himself a cup, and the sleeve pulled up and open to reveal what looked like a fresh, botched injection, red, swollen, and bruised. Two small, round scabs marked the back of his hand, almost invisible. He looked thinner, somehow, tired and sick, but like a law clerk who'd put in a late night, on the surface. For anyone who'd seen Reid earlier in the day, it was a notable transition.  
  
"How much of that's going to wash off?" Montoya asked, studying the subtle darkening of the shadows in Reid's face.  
  
"None. For a _while_." Mary winked at Montoya. "It's-- better if you ask me later, right? Take a girl out to breakfast and you never know what you'll hear."  
  
"Breakfast, huh?" Montoya gave Mary a sidelong look. "Now, how am I supposed to interpret an offer like that?"  
  
"Sensibly." Mary gave him a long look, eyebrows raised. "You don't get off work until like seven in the morning."  
  
"Damn, man, you really don't look good," Alvez finally said, eyeing Reid with no small amount of concern. "Are you sure you're okay? I mean, I saw you with that death flu or whatever, but..."  
  
A wry smile tipped the corner of Reid's mouth. "It's just a headache."  
  
JJ nearly choked on her coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me attempting a regular update schedule and shit! ... ... Of course, now that I've _said something_ , it's going to collapse. Assuming I can crawl out of the smoking wreckage of the completely unrelated other three thousand words I have to pull out of my ass by Friday, I'm aiming for another chapter Wednesday. WE'LL SEE HOW LUCKY I GET.


	6. Chapter 6

"So, you're looking a little rough, you know. I did say _functional_ addict," Montoya teased, as they left the diner, finally moving away from the rest of the team.   
  
"You said Vice detective," Reid shot back, wholly unoffended.  
  
Montoya laughed. "Ouch, man. Ouch." He paused. "So are we going to talk about this?"  
  
"Talk about what?" Reid smiled at a young mother's child, as they walked past.  
  
"You volunteer to be bait, and half your team's sure you can do it, and none of your team wants you to do it? I tell you to show up as a different kind of bait, and you come in with Burke? What kind of fed is she? I should've guessed when you two showed up with Villette."  
  
A small smile crossed Reid's face. "She's CDC, actually. Specialises in bacterial and fungal epidemics that only happen in farm country and will probably kill you. And she's pretty good at determining cause of death from other things, too."  
  
"You brought in a doctor. So your arm--"  
  
"Is going to continue to bruise, yes. If I keep my cuffs buttoned and my jacket on, it's just going to look suggestive. If I roll up my sleeves, certain assumptions will be borne out. And it's nothing that doesn't also look like an encounter with an incompetent phlebotomist, at a glance." Reid shrugged, watching the people around them on the street. "Arms are the worst choice, because they're obvious. They're a lot harder to hide. But, in this case, you wanted something that would be noticed and recognised. So, it couldn't just be arms, at least one of them had to be fresh and poorly handled. Done right, it's almost invisible after a few minutes. Done wrong, even if it's clean, the damage is fairly obvious."  
  
"You _have_ done this before, haven't you?"  
  
"Very effectively, and for longer than was wise."  
  
"I wasn't sure I believed it, even if you are Villette's...?" Montoya let the sentence trail off, inquisitively.  
  
"Friend," Reid said, after a moment too long. "We're very good friends. He thought if I pretended we were dating, no one else would, ah... attempt anything inappropriate."  
  
"Aw, damn. And Burke too?"  
  
Reid shrugged. "As far as I know, that relationship never ended up where you're suggesting. But, it's not my business, either way."  
  
"I was really hoping. You known him long?"  
  
"Long enough to trust him with my gun, but not my lunch."  
  
"The man just scares the shit out of people. Everybody wants to be able to say they touched him -- it's the sexy vampire thing, you know? But, they're all curiosity-seekers. They don't want to know him. Which is fine. He doesn't want to know them, either. But, he's a real romantic, and it's fucking him up bad." Montoya shook his head. "Thought I saw something between the two of you, and I was hoping he'd finally found somebody."  
  
Reid managed half a smile. "You did see something. It's just not what you're looking for, or what he's looking for. It's why people at work call us the 'evil twins'. You'll see it more clearly if you're ever working with both of us at the same time."  
  
"Well, you know why I don't want to be working with both of you at once. No offence, but I hope I never see either of you in a professional capacity again." Montoya nodded to a woman standing under a shop awning, just out of view of the display window. "C'mon, let me introduce you to some people." He turned and held his arms out as if greeting an old friend. "Nadine! How's my girl? Where's Cherry and Linda? I heard about Junie..."  
  
The woman blinked at him, her face suddenly hard. "What do you mean you heard about Junie? What happened to Junie?"  
  
Montoya tipped his head toward Reid, with an expectant look, and Reid filled in the blanks as best he could.  
  
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, ma'am--"  
  
"Ma'am," Nadine scoffed, shooting Montoya an entirely unimpressed look.  
  
"-- but, Juniper Astoria died, earlier this week. We're trying to find her killer."  
  
Nadine's eyes rounded, never leaving Montoya. "Vic, is he for real? Junie's dead? Who would kill Junie!? Everybody liked Junie! No, there has to be a mistake. That's not Junie. Or she got some bad shit or something. Nobody would kill Junie!"  
  
"I'm sorry, Nadine." Montoya put a hand on her shoulder. "I went to identify her, myself. And they thought it was a bad batch, but not unless she started shooting meth into the back of her neck, it's not. It's murder, and it's going around. I came down here to make sure you and the girls were okay."  
  
Reid watched the woman struggle not to cry, knowing she was worried about her eyeliner running down her face, to judge by the heavy rings of it around her eyes. It was the kind of style that would look better from across the street, and he assumed that was the point -- to draw people in from a distance. A style meant for the stage, in a more polite setting. Still, he offered her a tissue.  
  
"Who the fuck are you?" Nadine demanded, glaring at the tissue and then Reid's face. "You come down here with Vic like I'm supposed to know you, and you tell me Junie's dead? Who the _fuck_ are _you_?"  
  
"He's an old friend of mine, from the other side of town. He's not on the street so much these days, after his last op wrapped up. But, he's one of the good guys, I swear." Montoya stepped aside and gestured to Reid. "Nadine, let me introduce you to Detective James Spencer, shining knight of the underworld."  
  
Reid cleared his throat and squinted at Montoya, before returning an apologetic gaze to Nadine, hand still holding out the tissue. "Please, call me Jim. I'm not-- He's just--"  
  
"He's Vic. I know." Nadine rolled her eyes and grabbed at the tissue, her eyes rising slowly from Reid's wrist to his face, a flash of wry recognition. "No wonder you're not on the street much, if you can't even finish three sentences in a row."  
  
"I blame that entirely on Vic," Reid retorted, jamming his hands in his jacket pockets. "But, like he said, we came here to warn you. Junie's not the only one, but Vic thinks she's the only one that you _know_. We think someone's been making offers to, ah, regular users of an array of opioids--" He held up a hand, low. "That's not an accusation, by any means. But, we thought you might know people who might be at risk."  
  
Montoya nodded and moved his hand to drape that arm around Nadine's shoulders. "We need your help, Nadine. We're trying to catch a killer. You know my number, right? If you get an offer of somebody saying they'll give you a freebie or something, if they can put it in your neck, you call me. If you hear about it from anyone else, give them my number and then _you_ call me. Tell the girls. This guy's on a roll, and I don't want to have to identify any more of you ladies, you hear me?"  
  
"I hear you, Vic. I hear you." Nadine finally carefully blotted at her eye with the tissue. "You're not just jerking me around trying to pick up a dealer? This is really a killer?"  
  
"Nadine." Montoya leaned his head against hers. "Do I ever jerk you around? I'm not gonna start now. This is real bad shit, and I don't want anybody else to get killed."  
  
Reid pulled one of Montoya's cards out of his pocket and scribbled another number on the back of it. "If he doesn't answer, call _me_. I don't sleep much."  
  
"I bet you don't, with that ache in your bones." Nadine gave Reid a long, wary look. "Putting you both in a group text right now. I'm not wasting time waiting on one and then the other. No, I'll get you a message. You either read it or you don't. I'll call you later, if there's anybody I should be seeing and I don't. Here you are making me worry. Cherry should be back, soon. Linda went to get a coffee, so I don't know, maybe she'll be a little later. But, you keep an eye on this boy, Vic. New blood around here, tainted blood..."  
  
"Nah, the last op wrapped up pretty cleanly. It's been a while. Nobody's going to know him, now." Montoya winked and let go of Nadine. "We gotta go see some more people about this, so you take care of yourself. Stay warm."  
  
"A pleasure to meet you, ma'am." Reid nodded and managed a smile, as Montoya started down the street again. He wasn't sure Montoya had caught it, but he knew exactly what Nadine had been trying to say. It was a response they hadn't considered -- someone trying to warn Montoya about his apparent problem. But, as little as he knew about her, he definitely liked Nadine more for that choice. He had a lot more faith she would reach out to them, or at least to Montoya, if she learned anything. He was absolutely sure she'd be calling Montoya about him, about an hour after the shift ended.

* * *

"So, Dick..." Mary was pacing the floor of the slightly less magnificent suite than last time, back in DC. Slightly. At some point she was going to ask about the number of zeroes he was playing with, but now was not the time. "Your boyfriend has some interesting scars."  
  
The keyboard clatter stopped dead, all of Langly's attention on the conversation at hand. "And you know this how?"  
  
"I went up to help him dress up for some undercover thing. He needed a doctor to make it look real." No mention of what she'd had to make look real, though she didn't expect he'd ask it of her. He'd ask Spencer, later.  
  
"So, what, you saw the one where he got shot in the neck? Or the knee? Or that scar on his thigh?"  
  
"His arms. I saw his arms, and I knew what I was seeing. It's subtle, but the scarring's there. Just a few little white dots and thin lines."  
  
Langly made a non-committal noise. "What'd he say about it?"  
  
"Hospital IV scars."  
  
"Maybe you should take his word for it." Langly's voice was like ice. "Do you know how many times he almost got killed? You're talking about a guy who survived anthrax."  
  
"That's not what they are," she said, but she couldn't explain how she knew without explaining why she'd been there, what they'd been doing, the way he knew exactly what he wanted and what it should look like. The intensely personal knowledge of every vein that ran close to the surface of the skin, and which ones would do what they wanted. He spoke like his knowledge was absolute and unassailable, and he'd been right, every time.  
  
"I know every single scar on his body, for obvious reasons. And I know why almost all of them are there, because the _Bureau_ knows why they're there. And if he's telling you that you're looking at hospital scars, maybe it's because it's none of _your_ business what the hell he's been through."  
  
"And you will neither confirm nor deny, because he doesn't want me to know." Mary stopped pacing. "Despite the fact that there's pretty much no way for me _not_ to know."  
  
"Yep." For a moment, it sounded like Langly wasn't going to say anything else, and then, "It's not some coverup that's going to save hundreds of lives, if it's uncovered. There's no great act of hypocrisy that could change the face of law in this country. For a change, it's not aliens. It's just a guy with some entirely explicable scars he doesn't want to talk about. It's barely even my business, but yeah, I do know. And if you want to push the point with him about it, that's between you and him, but don't be surprised if you get bit."  
  
"Hey, Dick?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Does he know you know?"  
  
" _Yeah_." Langly said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "And what he told me is pretty much what's in the files. And I didn't ask, so... I think he was trying to give me a reason to give up on him. Didn't work, obviously."  
  
"Hey, Dick?"  
  
An annoyed breath, and then, " _Yeah?_ "  
  
"I was just worried you didn't know; that he wouldn't tell you, just like he wouldn't tell me. It's just the kind of thing you want to be aware of, especially with someone who's in and out of the hospital, all the time. Especially if they keep getting shot, like he obviously does. You have to know what to tell them _not to give him_."  
  
"Oh, _shit_." The frost ran out of Langly's voice, even if he did still sound a little irritated. "Yeah, I know. I have a list. He has a list. His team has the list. We all know what to do if he gets shot again. And we're all hoping he doesn't get shot again, but it's Reid. He's gonna to step in front of a bullet, and he's probably gonna be okay. Ish. Mostly." A sigh. "You know you could've cut half the mystery out of this conversation and just been like 'Hey, make sure his medication allergies list includes--"  
  
"If I don't say it, it can't be recorded."  
  
"And I thought I was the paranoid one in the family. You know I checked that room before I put you in it, right?"  
  
"What can I say? You taught me well."


	7. Chapter 7

It was half past six when the text from Nadine came in, and Reid, who was just about to drive back to the motel and sleep like he'd been soundly bludgeoned with a Webster's Unabridged, glared balefully at his phone, before he picked it up from the table and read the message.  
  
' _Cherry never came back. It's just me and Linda. She's never stayed out past sunrise._ '  
  
Montoya came into the room and spotted Reid looking at his phone. "You got it too? She's right. Cherry's never out this late. She should've been back hours ago. But, Nadine wouldn't have even told me, if we hadn't scared the shit out of her, last night."  
  
Reid nodded like his head might fall off. However rough he'd looked the night before, now he looked even worse. "Coffee. I'm in, but I need more coffee."  
  
"If you're anything like Villette, you need a box of donuts with that coffee."  
  
"I don't eat as much as he does, but I also think I missed at least one meal, possibly three, yesterday... which is now today, which is now the... ah, possibly the third day? Donuts are probably a good idea." Reid closed his eyes before he nodded, this time. "But, coffee first, if you expect me to be able to see when we get where we're going."  
  
Montoya just watched him for a long moment. "You sure you don't want to sleep this one off? I can drag somebody else out. It's not a big deal."  
  
"You should call Mary and tell her you're not going to make it to breakfast." Reid squinted at Montoya and then patted his pockets to make sure he had everything he'd walked into the room with. Jacket, he remembered, as he'd almost made it to the door. Then, on the second attempt, he remembered his bag. It was only the third day, and he knew he was usually better than this, more together, more conscious, but his arms itched like mad and he could taste the memories of less pleasant times on the backs of his teeth. "And then you can watch me do an impression of Agent Villette that I'm probably going to regret for the rest of the day."  
  
"You going to swallow a box of donuts like a python swallowing a pig?" Montoya asked, following Reid out the door, wondering how long the guy could keep standing up, looking like that. "And I don't have her number, so I hope she didn't stay up waiting for me."  
  
"I'm telling Chaz you said that. And no, not a whole box. Probably only half a box."

* * *

The car absolutely screamed 'unmarked', and Reid wondered if that was going to be a benefit or a hindrance in this neighbourhood, as he glanced around, taking in the angles of the windows above his head and the surprising number of people walking down the street at this hour, at the end of January. He followed Montoya up the stairs to a stoop that held a wooden door that didn't quite close. The door had been green long enough that the deep chips in the paint still showed the colour all the way down.  
  
Montoya held the door open for him, then nodded toward a second set of steps, inside, that led up to another floor of apartments that had been cut out of what was once a single-family rowhouse. And Langly teased him about living in a shoebox. He was sure all of these were smaller than what he had. Maybe half the size, at most. He'd almost moved into a place like this, before settling on what he had. It was cheap enough that he'd been sure he could afford it, but it hadn't been near enough to anything he'd needed and the walls were even thinner than the walls he had now.  
  
Reid stood back as Montoya knocked at the door right at the top of the stairs.  
  
"Nadine, it's me," Montoya called, but the door whipped open before he could finish the sentence. A woman Reid hadn't met held it. "Linda, how's Nadine? Has Cherry come home?"  
  
The woman shook her head and stepped aside to let Montoya in. She watched Reid as one watches a pit bull the owner swears is sweet.  
  
"This is Detective James--"  
  
"Don't give me that shit," Linda interrupted. "I know who he is."  
  
Reid blinked in confusion, taking a longer look at Linda. "Have we met?"  
  
"You were all over the newspapers, and you think you can come down here and do undercover?" Linda looked over her shoulder as Nadine stepped out of the bathroom. She jabbed a finger at Reid. "This your 'Detective Jim', honey? He's FBI. The one that got shot in that thing with the army guy and the treason."  
  
Nadine glanced at Reid's wrists and then back up to his face, watching his eyes. "Guess that didn't agree with you, did it?"  
  
Reid could see Montoya debating whether to deny the identification, and while he waited, he gave Nadine a long look and jammed his hands into his pockets, taking his wrists out of view.  
  
"Nah, he just looks like a lot of people," Montoya said, tapping his ear and gesturing at the wall. "It's why he's so good at what he does." He raised an eyebrow and put a finger to his lips.  
  
Nadine picked it up immediately and nodded to Montoya. "Yeah, he's right, Linda. That agent in the papers was cute. This guy looks like the ugly brother in the family."  
  
Reid cleared his throat. " _Thanks_."  
  
Linda shot Montoya a suspicious look, rolling her eyes and shaking her head.  
  
"We're here about Cherry. Obviously, she's a grown woman, and she can make her own decisions, including disappearing without leaving a forwarding address, but under the circumstances, I'm going to consider this a suspicious disappearance, because of that killer we're looking for. Cherry's ... similar enough to his type that I'm concerned," Montoya explained. "Why don't we start with the basics. Do either of you know her real name? How old she was?"  
  
"Cherise...?" Linda looked at Nadine.  
  
"Something with an F. Fordham? Fortnum?" Nadine shook her head. "We didn't really need to know, you know? But, she says she's twenty-three."  
  
Present tense, Reid noticed. Even if Nadine believed Cherry was dead, it hadn't sunk in yet.  
  
"I'm pretty sure we've arrested her for something. I just need enough to make sure I pull the right records. I don't want to accidentally say we're looking for the wrong Cherise, and get into more trouble than I'm already in, pushing this case." Montoya offered an apologetic smile. "When'd you last see her, who was she with, and which way did she go?"  
  
"About what, ten thirty, last night?" Nadine looked at Linda.  
  
Linda pulled out her phone. "Gimmie your number, Vic. I got who she left with and when."  
  
Montoya rattled off his number, and a moment later, his phone chimed, revealing that Linda had sent him a time and GPS stamped photo of the back of a car. "You're looking out for her."  
  
"We all look out for each other. You only get into trouble when you're the last one left." Linda gave him a sharp look. "And that's Nadine, last night. I went to get us coffee, about half an hour later, because I thought Cherry would get back before me. When she didn't, the first thing we thought was she'd got something longer than we expected. Sometimes that happens. Not always bad, you know? Guy decides he likes you, ponies up for something else. It wasn't trouble until she didn't come back in the _morning_. And she didn't text either of us. We almost always manage to get a text out, if things change. You have to go to the bathroom eventually, and you just take your purse with you, and nobody says shit about it."  
  
"Can you give us her phone number?" Reid asked. "We can _probably_ tell if she tried to send a text or to call someone, and it didn't go through at the time. Do you know if she kept her GPS turned on?"  
  
"There's only a few times we'll turn it off. There's things you don't want people looking up, you know? This is one of them. You turn it off before you come home, you don't turn it on until you get where you're going, and then you leave it on until you come home. Except a couple places, you know?" Nadine watched Reid warily, and he knew that however much these women trusted Montoya, they wouldn't trust him, each for her own reason.  
  
Vic swiped his phone open again. "I'm gonna make a quick call and see if we can find her with the GPS."  
  
"Why don't you let me take care of that?" Reid offered, stepping back toward the door. "I'm just going to step out and have a smoke. Check on the car..."  
  
Montoya gave Reid an odd look -- the man didn't smell like a smoker. What the hell was he doing? "Yeah, sure. I'll see what else we can get here. If you're not back in ten minutes, I'm coming after you."  
  
"Five. Max. Promise." Reid pulled the door open and slipped out, waiting to send a text to Garcia until he was back in the building's foyer, the furthest point from all the doors. He'd have called, but he'd learned that texting really was the better option when one didn't want to be overheard.  
  
The outer door still hung loosely in the frame, despite attempts to close it properly, when they'd first come in. He switched to the other phone, unsurprised to find he had no signal, here, and typed out a message to be delivered once he was back in range of a public network. Finally, he actually stepped outside, into the morning chill, brushing snow off the railing so he could sit just out of range of the door's arc, watching the street. The morning bustle was entering its next phase, parents sending their children off to school. Children seemed to congregate at the doors of the few buildings with cars parked out front, waiting for the parent who would drive them, as their own parents walked down the street toward the bus stops.  
  
Across the street, he spotted a person -- a man, he thought, from the height -- in a heavy quilted coat that looked like something from another century. A Russian style, he thought, though the hood didn't match that impression. But, the midnight blue and gold coat shielded almost all of the figure from inspection, reaching down so far that only the ankles and feet of what seemed to be black leather boots were visible. Whoever this was, they walked like they belonged here, but absolutely didn't dress like it.  
  
Reid slid off his perch and darted down the stairs, glancing down the street for traffic that didn't exist before he dashed across the road. "Ah, excuse me!" he called to the figure, reaching for the Baltimore badge in his pocket, hoping it was the only one he was carrying.  
  
The figure turned to look at him, revealing the lower half of a thin and sallow face, the top hidden by a blue lace veil that seemed to be part of the hood. "I do not have what you need," the figure assured him in a clear baritone, the accent one it took Reid a moment to parse. Italian, maybe?  
  
"I haven't asked for anything," Reid pointed out, stopping a few feet back from the man -- he was relatively sure this was a man, "so how would you know?"  
  
"I know what you need, and I do not have it, however much I wish I did."  
  
This close, Reid could smell the lingering scent of opium smoke on the man's clothes. _Smoke_? In this day and age? And he wondered if the man had seen his wrists and assumed he was looking to make a purchase. "I'm just looking for information about a woman who went missing, last night."  
  
"I wish that I could help you," the man said, turning away. "When we next meet, I will know more."  
  
"But--" Reid watched the man enter what must've been a basement door and took note of the house number, before he went back to get Montoya. Maybe the guy was undercover or somebody's CI. But, dressed like that? Here? The experience disturbed him, on some fundamental level, but he was sure Montoya would know what that was about. Someone like that wouldn't just escape the notice of the locals, and yet, no one else had reacted to the man as being the least bit unusual, even if none of them had stopped to talk to him.  
  
As he returned to Nadine's, he met Montoya on the stairs.  
  
"We've got all we're going to get. And really, all we need, at this point. I've got a lot more than you usually get for a missing person, at this stage." Montoya gestured with his phone. "You make the call?"  
  
"We should hear back relatively soon." Reid nodded and opened the door for Montoya. "But, I have to ask you about someone I saw, out here... A man in a long blue and gold coat with a hood that hid half his face. His chin's narrow, his lips are thin, and his skin looks jaundiced. I think he has an Italian accent? From Italy, though, not from New Jersey. Does that sound like anyone you know?"  
  
"You actually saw this guy?" Montoya looked surprised, as he stepped out, pulling out the car keys. "We thought he was just a local legend. You're really not yanking my chain, here? You saw the Doctor?"  
  
"The... Doctor?" Reid tipped his head in confusion as he struggled to close the door as best he could.  
  
"So, there's this ghost story about a guy in a big coat or long robes who sometimes shows up to emergencies where nobody called an ambulance. Nobody's ever seen his face, but he's saved people's lives. Took some photos and brought them around to some people, and they say stitches haven't been done like that in almost a hundred years, but the guy's got a good eye and steady hands. All his work is good work, but his methods are all old, like that. Sometimes he shows up in the middle of the night with like... freakass herbal salves and shit, but they always do what he says they will. And everybody just calls him the Doctor. But, we've never actually seen the guy. Not us, not the paramedics... Usually nobody but the victim will see him, and if it wasn't for the stitches, we'd have written him off as a hallucination. But, you saw him? You _talked_ to him?" Montoya eyed Reid in amazement.  
  
"Ah, yeah. I did. And then he went into a house across the street, but not the main door. I think it must've been a door for a sublevel?"  
  
"None of these houses have a second door in front." Montoya blinked and studied Reid more closely.  
  
Reid told him the house number and pointed, but even as he did so, he could tell the door wasn't there. "It was a blue door at street level."  
  
"It's always a blue door. Every time someone says they saw him go in somewhere, it's a blue door. Spoiler time? There's never a blue door there." Montoya pressed a hand across his eyes and sighed. "Are you just screwing with me?"  
  
"No, I'm really pretty sure of what I just saw. There were other people on the street, too," Reid insisted.  
  
Montoya groaned and unlocked the car. "I won't call Villette if you don't."  
  
"We have no evidence this 'doctor' committed a crime, aside from possibly practising medicine without a license, although I'm pretty sure that doesn't count in discussions of lifesaving techniques applied when no other assistance is available, so... He's just a guy who helps people." Reid paused, looking over the top of the car at Montoya. "Unless he's our killer, in which case I'm calling Villette."  
  
"Get in the car, before we both freeze to death, and tell me what he said to you. Then we'll decide."


	8. Chapter 8

Reid looked a little better after a nap. Honestly, he felt a little better, too, even if he was still dizzy and a little sick from too many donuts on an empty stomach. But, the important thing was that it was Garcia's call that had woken him from a dead sleep and spurred him to return to the pursuit of a murderer, his protesting stomach be damned.  
  
He slipped into the room that held the rest of his team, most of his focus on looking like he had any business standing up, and held up a slip of paper. "I have a name."  
  
"You have a _name_?" JJ turned around, eyeing Reid uncertainly. "Whose name? How?"  
  
Reid took a seat, before he spoke again, absently rubbing his knuckles against the inside of his forearm. "Right. I missed you, this morning. I just assumed Garcia would call one of you, instead of me. By now, you know a woman went missing, last night. Detective Montoya put in a missing persons report, before he went home. I sent some information to Garcia, to see if we could get a jump on things. That was... about four hours ago. Garcia just called me, because one of the things we sent her was a photograph of the car the woman was getting into, when she was last seen. If she turns out to have been one of our victims, I have the name of the last person to see her alive." He slid the scrap of paper across the table with one finger.  
  
"When's the last time you slept?" Prentiss asked him, taking the slip and reading it.  
  
Reid squinted at his watch. "About ten minutes ago. I'd have stopped for breakfast, but this seemed more immediately important."  
  
"I'll get breakfast," JJ offered, pointing around the table, as she got up and went for her coat. "Ham and eggs with a bagel, scrambled eggs and toast with tabasco, bacon and sunny-side up, and..."  
  
"No eggs. I will vomit." Reid rested his head on the edge of the table. "Bagels and jam? I could eat bagels and jam."  
  
"The good news is we did find Cherise," Lewis volunteered, as JJ left the room. "Rossi and Alvez went down to watch the autopsy. We've requested Dr Sherazi, and if we can't have her, we've volunteered Dr Langly."  
  
"So, she's dead." Reid didn't lift his head.  
  
"I'm afraid so. We've decided to let Detective Montoya do the notification, since he's less likely to cause a stir in the neighbourhood or the household."  
  
"I should be there with him," Reid muttered.  
  
"You should go back to bed, Reid," Prentiss told him. "Montoya's not going until he wakes up and comes on shift, and if you're working nights on this one, you need to sleep."  
  
"I slept!" Reid protested. "What I need to do is _eat_."  
  
"Eat breakfast and then go back to bed," Lewis suggested. "You can't stay up until we solve this case. We're handling the day side of things, so that you and Montoya have the information you need, when you go out at night."  
  
"I have had an entire three consecutive and continuous hours of sleep, and I am fine, thank you." Reid was sure he would be more convincing if he could sit up, but he didn't need to sit up to take the next step. "It's the middle of the day. If Michael Reston was the last person to see Cherry alive, he's probably awake by now."  
  
"And if you're going with Montoya, tonight, you're not coming with us now," Prentiss decided. "Take a nap, Spencer. Missing a few hours _now_ isn't going to hurt anything. Being tired like this, later, is going to get you shot."  
  
"I'm waiting for JJ," Reid insisted, "because if I sleep without eating, I'm not going to be any better later."  
  
"What the hell happened to you?" Prentiss asked, after a moment watching Reid breathe slowly, forehead still resting on the edge of the table. "I send you off to have a vacation, and you come back looking almost as bad as you did when you left."  
  
"ACTF borrowed me for something in Nebraska. It was, ah... I haven't slept an entire night in _weeks_. And I can't tell you why, because ACTF, and please don't ask Falkner. No, wait. Two. I have slept straight through two nights in the last ... two weeks? Three?" Reid finally lifted his head, holding himself up with a hand against the table. "I'm fine. I just need to remember to buy my own lunch, because I'm not travelling with Villette."  
  
"What, does he buy it and feed it to you?" Prentiss's face twisted in amusement.  
  
"Metabolic disorder," Reid said, using the excuse Chaz always did. "He eats constantly, but that also means there's pretty much always enough food for a small army within reach. And we were staying with Frank's, ah... family, so someone was always cooking. I walked into an argument about what counted as cheating when ensuring the structural integrity of a casserole, one morning, and I just walked right back out of the kitchen. That said, I think I've eaten more cream of mushroom soup in the last month than I have ever eaten in my entire life."  
  
"Aren't you allergic to--"  
  
"Technically? No. But, somewhere around the fourth day of casserole duels, I think we crossed the line into what any sane person would consider sadistic applications of cheese and sour cream."  
  
"He needs a vacation from his vacation," Lewis quipped.  
  
"This is why I so rarely attempt to take more than a weekend off to visit my mother."

* * *

In the end, Reid and Montoya were left to interview Reston, keeping up the facade of this being merely a police matter. Reid took in the rowhouse, as they came through the door, comparing it to Nadine's building. For one, the front door actually closed and locked, and instead of a dim hallway, it opened almost straight into a large, windowed dining room, and the light from what was probably the kitchen, behind it, lit the stairs at the far end of the gleaming wood floor. Which reminded him he hadn't polished the floor since last year, and he should really probably get around to it, before the finish started to chip where it wasn't covered by rugs... and there were a distinct lack of rugs in this place, which was an interesting choice and strongly suggested that Reston not only had the money to live in an entire restored rowhouse, but to refinish the floor fairly regularly, if it still looked like this. But, really, the numbers Garcia had given them bore that out. There was no obvious sign of unexpected funds. What struck him as unexpected was the fact that a man who lived like this had a nineteen-seventies Oldsmobile registered in his name.  
  
"The car?" Reston was saying, as Reid finally paid attention to the man instead of the house. "I appreciate vintage automobiles, and I have a few. I even drive them, sometimes. There's nothing like the feel of a well-made car. None of that plastic garbage they make these days."  
  
And that, honestly, Reid could agree with. "Were you driving the tan Oldsmobile, last night, at around ten-thirty? And if not, do you know where the car is, now?"  
  
Reston turned his canny gaze on Reid. "Well, there's not really any sense in trying to tell you I wasn't, is there? You've got me on a traffic camera or something, so you know where I was, and probably why I was there."  
  
"We're interested in the woman you went to see," Reid said, tactfully, studying Reston. The man was probably in his mid-fifties, handsome, but not particularly eye-catching, with light brown eyes and greying light brown hair. He wore black trousers and a light blue shirt, with a dark blue waistcoat that Reid was fairly sure of the label on, being that he owned the same one. Under other circumstances, he might've been drawn to converse with the man on trivial points of history. "The people she lives with reported her missing, this morning, and you're the last person we're certain saw her, so anything you can tell us would help."  
  
"Cherry," Reston said, after a moment. "She told me to call her Cherry. Are you certain we're speaking of the same woman?"  
  
"Cherise Forton, friends call her Cherry," Montoya confirmed, nodding. "She went out last night, said she'd be back in half an hour, and never returned."  
  
"They must be very concerned! She was very much alive when she left my car, last night, at about eleven. So, she was definitely running a little late, but even walking, she was only ten or fifteen minutes from where she began." Reston shook his head, looking surprised and confused.  
  
"Here, why don't we sit down at that big table over there, and you can tell me all about it in your own words, and then we'll ask you some questions." Montoya gestured toward the dining room table, a massive and ornate piece of wooden furniture.  
  
"Yes. Yes, of course. She's _missing_?" Reston asked again, shaking his head as he pulled out two chairs and sat down in a third. "How terrible. How truly terrible."

* * *

"I wish we could connect him to any of the others, but we can't," Reid picked absently at a salad, sitting across from Montoya in a little restaurant almost empty at this hour.  
  
"Reston?" Montoya put his burger down, surprise on his face. "What'd you see that I didn't? The guy looked like he was afraid we were going to hassle him for picking up hookers, but I didn't get murder off him."  
  
"He's very careful with his words. He's surprised she's _missing_. She was alive when she got out of his car, but he doesn't connect that to the last time he saw her. The last place he _saw her_ is not far from where she was found, and I'm pretty sure you can see the one from the other, if you know what you're looking for. I don't like it. He's telling the truth -- I have no doubt everything he told us is true -- but, he's counting on the implications carrying the lies for him."  
  
"I think that's the paranoia talking." Montoya took another bite of his burger.  
  
"I think I know exactly what I'm looking at because I've done it." _While wearing that waistcoat_ , Reid didn't add.  
  
"Okay, but where the hell's the motive? We've got a when and a where, but we don't have a why or a how. Well, we know how she was killed, but we don't have anything that would connect the guy to it. He's not a doctor; he's not a chemist; he's got no arrests for possession. The guy's a commodities broker on the international market, which, yes, could mean drug trade, but that doesn't generally involve western European goods, which your tech lady says is what he deals in. Bulk trade in like... meats and cabbages, French glass, and he never actually _handles_ any of it, just gets in as the middle man."  
  
"Why is because, like the others, she's addicted to some kind of opioid. But, you're right. By itself, that's not a motive, it's just an aspect of the victim profile. Low-income, low-impact people who are opioid addicts. The kind of people that from a position like Reston's, you think nobody's going to miss." Reid pointed at Montoya with his fork. "You said it yourself -- nobody wanted to work this one. Nobody wanted to admit it was murder."  
  
"Okay, and if it was just people nobody's going to miss, there'd be other kinds of addicts, as long as they're not legitimately employed and don't seem to have family or friends in other parts of town. It'd be homeless people, more than addicts. We'd be seeing people staying at the Y as victims. People with no connection to the community. But, we're not. We're seeing long-time locals who have homes and friends, but not connections to parts of society that are likely to call the cops. We're seeing people who have employment, but not the kind you'd report on your taxes. They're not as invisible as you can get, they're just not as likely to be reported missing. So, really, we're back to opioids as the connection." Montoya slid down in the booth and gestured with a fry. "Which sounds like it should be a dispute between dealers, but people hear about that. People warn each other about that. And this is the wrong kind of death for that, anyway. This is something weird. Like, who the hell does this? It's not like just walking out and shooting somebody. It's not like faking a suicide or an overdose. This is legitimately abnormal."  
  
"And that's why I'm here," Reid reminded him, around a mouthful of lettuce and chicken. "It's weird enough for me, and not weird enough for Chaz."  
  
"Okay, so, professional weirdo opinion, what the hell are we looking at?"  
  
"In my professional weirdo opinion, we're definitely looking at an opioid connection, but not a dealer or gang connection. We're looking at someone with an obsession with people with opioid addictions, and most likely, people with heroin addictions, given that's the one point of overlap in the list -- no matter what their preferences are, they have all done heroin at one point or another. I'm going to guess and say they most likely had scars from it that were relatively obvious, something that advertised that they were not averse to intravenous drugs." Reid shrugged expressively. "But, that still leaves entire categories open. Heroin is hardly the only injectable drug -- _opioids_ are hardly the only injectable drugs. So, this person recognises something else, as well. They know that the victims are interested in opioids, specifically, and that they've injected them, in the past, and might be open to doing so again."  
  
"So, we're assuming this injection is voluntary." Montoya nodded, absently chewing and staring into space as he put his thoughts in order. "Which goes with what Doc Sherazi says -- no signs of restraint or a fight. The damage is all internal and consistent with the sort of thing you'd get with a massive overdose of amphetamines. But, it's a bitch of a place to reach, so somebody else most likely injected it."  
  
"The syringes also haven't been found. In the earlier cases, it's likely no one was looking for them, but with Cherry, my team went out there. While syringes were found, none of them were recently used, and I expect none of them will have traces of the drug that was injected into her." Closing his eyes, Reid stilled, fork halfway into a chunk of chicken. "The UnSub is cleaning up after themselves. And I don't just mean they're removing the syringe from the scene. The punctures are all consistent, and it's difficult to tell after death, especially at this scale, but I'd venture there's no damage to the edges of the wound, and after eighteen victims -- at least eighteen -- if the same needle were being used, there would be tearing. This is a person who's either actively or reflexively concerned about cross-contamination." The hand not holding the fork went for the phone in his pocket. "I have to make sure of it, but I'm sure Sherazi would have checked. She was so careful about everything else, but I don't remember seeing that in the report, which makes me think I'm right. If there was tearing, she'd have mentioned it."  
  
"If you're going to kill somebody, why the hell do you care about cross-contamination?" Montoya posed the question into the silence of Reid trying to send a text. "You care, because it's not about the contamination, it's about the ease of injection. A new needle goes in smoother, right? The vic's not going to freak out with a new needle."  
  
"The victim's probably relatively accustomed to re-using needles. They'd be familiar with the sensation." Reid shook his head. "But, I can see that perspective. The other thing that occurs to me is that they're testing this new drug, and they don't want anything to interfere with the results. You only get reliable data with a clean delivery. But, eighteen victims..." He put his phone on the table, eyebrows drawing together. "Is not a statistically significant sample pool. It's certainly possible, though I'm still curious why someone would invent... basically a new amphetamine just to see how it killed people. Just to see how it killed opioid addicts. We're _really_ missing something, here."  
  
"We're back to a motive problem," Montoya agreed. "If you're trying to clean up the streets, you don't invent a drug for it, you just _shoot people_. If you're testing a new drug, you don't try it on people who are into the exact opposite of what your drug does. And if it's killing people, you change the formula, until it stops. Unless... Are they looking for a _survivor_?"  
  
Reid shook his head. "Not with the amount being injected. Anyone who knows enough to develop this drug knows that dosage isn't survivable. Especially not where it's being delivered."  
  
"We still have nothing."  
  
"I still think it's Reston."  
  
"Okay, but _why_ would it be Reston?"  
  
Reid made a small noise of frustration and went back to his salad.


	9. Chapter 9

Chaz lay draped along the couch, head on one arm, legs tossed over the other, his own arm extended straight up, with Schmengy Paws clinging to his hand, peering down over his fingertips. "You," he told the kitten, as if imparting some great secret, "are a cat. It is a fact. You are a very catty cat, even. You floof, and you purr, and you are very pointy."  
  
The sound of footsteps on the stairs preceded Hafidha's voice. "What are you doing with my cat?"  
  
"I'm keeping him off my face." Chaz tipped his head back to reveal a few small, red scratches just below his eye. "As long as I talk to him, he keeps purring, but he's decided my eyelashes are his new favourite toy, and every time I blink, he tries to eat my eye. But, if I keep the daring young beast examining the room from new and exciting heights, I can actually read this and figure out if we have a case." He gestured at his laptop with his free hand. "Frank said something interesting about chupacabra sightings, and I'm wondering if this one's going to be our problem, his problem, or just one too many beers."  
  
Hafidha nodded as if this all made perfect sense, coming around the back of the couch to pet the cat, before she headed into the kitchen. "I came down here to see if you were cooking, yet. I guess that's a no."  
  
"There's still sandwich loaf, I think."  
  
The fridge opened and then closed.  
  
"Didn't you say Frank's cousin is in town? She came back with you guys because something about assassins?" Hafidha leaned around the wall.  
  
"Yeah, but I don't know where she's staying. Frank took care of all of that." Chaz tried to figure out how to sit up to see over the back of the couch without dropping his laptop or the cat.  
  
"She's still pissed at you, then?"  
  
"She's... I don't really..." Chaz put the kitten down on the back of the sofa. "Now she's pissed at me for a different reason, which is fine. I get the impression things would not have worked out between us, even without the help."  
  
"What'd you do this time?"  
  
Chaz sighed, wiggling his fingers at Schmengy Paws. "I wouldn't put out."  
  
There was a long pause, and then Hafidha appeared, leaning over the back of the couch, her face twisted in confusion and concern. "I'm sorry, say that again? _You_...?"  
  
"Some... _things_ about me came out in a discussion of the clones. She was, in a word, disgusted. I didn't even have to look to know it. I'm not sure I had to be in the room to know it, but I was sitting right next to her." Chaz put his hands over his face and took a long breath. "And then Frank talked to her, and I guess they straightened some things out, because she decided she was willing to put aside the fact that he got to me first and I _couldn't tell her_. But, I don't know. Maybe it's the Bug. Maybe I just dodged a bullet. I can't tell. But, every time she makes a pass at me, all I see is that combination of fundamental revulsion and scientific interest, and I don't want to get involved with that. So, now things have gone from 'awkward' to 'really fucking awkward'. I just can't do it."  
  
"Well, you've always got Frank, right? Duke says he's got great legs. That's gotta count for something."  
  
"Frank's legs are incredible, and that in no way changes the fact that he's _Spencer's_ boyfriend, not mine. It matters, Hafs." Chaz peered over his fingertips. "We're _not_ the same person, jokes aside, and it _matters_."  
  
"I know, platypus, I know." Hafidha reached down to pet his hair and squeeze his wrist, and after a moment, Schmengy Paws jumped down onto the laptop with a fearsome tiny yowl. Hafidha glanced at the cat. "He's right, you know. The answer to a lot of things is just to yell until somebody feeds you."  
  
"Is that my cue to get up and make dinner?"  
  
"No, that's your warning that I'm going to try to take your never-girlfriend out to a restaurant. We both know Frank doesn't go anywhere. You don't want to see her. Spencer's in Baltimore for a case. And she's stuck here and doesn't know anybody. She's going to completely lose her shit, without something to do." Hafidha paused, picking up the kitten to nuzzle him. "It wasn't the gamma thing, right? What she freaked out over?"  
  
"No. It's really just that my family tree is a little short on branches."  
  
"I could see how that would come up with clones. Still shitty of her. And, you know, completely hypocritical. It's not like there's any genetic variation in her family."  
  
"And you're still going to dinner with her."  
  
"She's a clone of multiple anomalous people, Chaz. Let's not stress her out too much. Frank's mostly harmless, but the rest of them aren't, and I don't want to see what she's going to dredge out of the depths of her screwed up childhood if she goes off the deep end from being stuck in a hotel room by herself for a couple of weeks." Hafidha deposited the kitten back on Chaz's chest. "Besides, I'm hungry, you're busy, and that sandwich loaf was not your best decision."  
  
"I just spent three weeks doing mid-century Midwestern kitchen duels, in a house with five lunatics. Something was going to give."  
  
"So, I'm going to call Frank, and then I'm going to call Mary, and then I'm going to have a very nice meal neither of us had to cook with the hot doctor who was a shithead to my little brother."  
  
"Great. Thanks." Chaz rolled his eyes, trying to follow Hafidha as she made her way back around the couch toward her coat and the door, and Schmengy Paws was quick to pounce, back arched as he batted at Chaz's eye once again. Chaz gave up and squeezed his eyes shut. "Listen, if you bring her home with you, just text me first, so I can evacuate the living room."  
  
"Will do!" Hafidha promised, already dialling as she let herself out.

* * *

The coat Reid had arrived in had FBI printed on the back of it, and the one he'd borrowed to go out with Montoya in was pretty much the same coat without the print. It screamed 'cop'. So he'd gone out with no coat. Took the Baltimore badge and his own gun, just in case he ran into trouble, but went out with just his sweater and scarf, driving his own car. He probably should have taken JJ or Montoya with him, but it wasn't worth disturbing them. He'd be gone an hour, maybe. No one would even notice him gone, before he'd gotten back. He just needed a look at the angles. He needed a look at the street where Reston claimed to have dropped off Cherry, that little bit down the road from where she was found. He needed to get it right in his head, and even JJ tended to lose her nearly infinite patience with him, in these moments. So, he went alone.  
  
Here. This intersection. He'd walked from Nadine's post, greeted her, let her know he was working on finding the killer, left his car where she could see it, hoping that might keep it safer than leaving it anywhere else. But, he was tracing the route Reston had described, in reverse, walking back from where Cherry would have been headed to where Reston said she'd gotten out of the car. And now he stood in that spot, studying the street, the buildings, the people, the way the light fell. Everything mattered, until it didn't. Who would've known her, here? Who might've seen her get out of the car? Which windows had faces in them? Which shops would've been open?  
  
"You lose something, man?" The voice held a clear warning, and Reid turned to face the man who'd spoken, slowly pulling his phone out of his pocket, as he responded.  
  
"A woman." He brought up the picture of Cherry that Nadine had given them and showed it to the man. "Did you see her, last night? The last place anyone saw her alive was this corner, at about eleven, last night."  
  
"And where's the last place anybody saw her dead?" The man's eyes raised to Reid's. "She dead, or she just still missing?"  
  
"They found her this afternoon in one of the buildings up the street. Someone killed her. I just want to know why." Reid figured 'heartbroken boyfriend' would get him further than 'annoyed detective' any day of the week, down here.  
  
"Why? Not who? Seems like most people want to know who did this thing so they could go do something about it."  
  
"If you know who, I'd like to know. If I know who, then I know who to ask why." Memory put an appropriately pained look on Reid's face, and the echoes of grief nearly buckled his knees. "I just want to know how someone could do this to her..."  
  
"That's Cherry, man," the man said slowly. "You, ah... You know she's..." The man stopped trying to be tactful, but his voice was still soft. "You know she's a hooker, right?"  
  
Reid rubbed one eye with the back of his wrist, the sweater sliding up his arm. "What difference is that supposed to make? Does it matter less that she's dead? Am I supposed to feel better about her death, because she didn't work in an office? She's still just as dead, and nobody can tell me who killed her or why."  
  
He watched the man's eyes dart to his forearm, that flash of recognition.  
  
"Sorry, man, you just... you see some weird shit down here. Just making sure you know what you're dealing with."  
  
"But, did you _see_ her?"  
  
The man shook his head. "I didn't see shit, my man. I was out having Chinese with a beautiful woman, last night. But, I'll tell you what: I'll ask around a little. Cherry came this way often enough. I didn't know her real well, but I walked her where she was going a few times, just to keep her out of trouble with some less civilised people. You see this place behind me? You come down here in a couple of days and you ask for Lamont. I'll tell you what people have to say about your girl."  
  
"Lamont." Reid nodded and smiled weakly. "Thank you. It means a lot to know someone else cares."  
  
"Ain't like the police gonna do shit," Lamont muttered to himself. "You take care of yourself, now. What's your name?"  
  
"Call me Jim," Reid answered, sticking to the name he carried in his pocket.  
  
"You give me a couple days, Jim. I'll find out who knows what." Lamont nodded and headed back down the street, the way he'd been going.  
  
Reid crossed the street, heading for the building where the body had been found. He'd have to ask Montoya about Lamont, when he got back. But, for now, he still had to see things for himself.   
  
' _The last place I saw her was in front of the old pharmacy, over there. With the broken windows. And then I didn't see anything, because I drove away._ '  
  
The body had been found inside the pharmacy. The building was condemned, but that didn't mean no one was living in it, in the old apartments above the shop. Parts of the facade had slid down, baring the block of the wall beneath, and in one place, where a window had fallen, the room behind it, ancient blue paint peeling in the light from the streetlamp across the road. But, most of the ground floor was in shadow. The windows were smashed out, but the structural walls and pillars still stood, inside, and some of the other interior walls and counters remained. The body had been found in a place clearly visible from the street, if one had enough light to see it, which suggested it was meant to be found.  
  
' _She's_ missing _?_ '  
  
As if Reston had been surprised the body hadn't yet been discovered. But, how had Reston convinced her to come into this place, Reid wondered, as he stepped through the broken storefront window and into the darkness beyond. Would there have been lights? No, probably not. They wouldn't have wanted to draw attention, and once out of the light from the street, most of the room resolved fairly well. The column. She'd have been just by the column, which meant she wasn't immediately visible from the street, even in daylight. Not if she was dead. Piles of rotting leaves and garbage clung to the corners, disrupting the floor -- which was scattered with heavier refuse -- just enough to disguise the shape of a body or anything else smaller than a sofa. The death wouldn't have been quiet, but he wasn't sure the sounds would've caught the attention of anyone walking by. Just another overdose, nothing to see, nobody's going to get here fast enough to do anything anyway. And he hated that. And he hated that he understood that.  
  
Bent needles, broken needles, melted syringes, chip bags, what smelled like a leaf bag of mouldy towels... with an imprint, like someone had been sitting on it. Where was the body found? There. By the vomit tracks. He crouched down to get a better look at the floor, to see if he could tell if the bag had been moved recently. But, he thought she might have been sitting on it, when she was injected. Not standing or kneeling, but sitting, leaned forward. If there were footprints, it was impossible to tell. Too many people had come through, both before and after her. And now, he realised, hearing the sound of a leaf dragged across the remains of the linoleum.  
  
He decided not to announce himself, to act like he belonged there. Pushing up his sleeves, he edged back so the column and its shadow would hide him from the street, as he tried to see who had come in. But, there wasn't another sound, not a footstep, not a brush of leaves, and he started to wonder if it was just the wind. As he stood, back to the column, a shadow unfolded from what had been behind him, when he was still examining the bag, and the sap took him across the temple before he could finish drawing his gun.


	10. Chapter 10

The rush of confused consciousness hit him hard enough that Chaz almost lost an eye to the cat. Panic. Terror and uncertainty. The smell of rotting wood and wallboard. He couldn't get Reid to calm down. Whole sections of the man's mind he'd never seen lay open before him like gutted fish, a terrible gift backed by the fear of death. He leaned into the adrenaline haze, hoping to get a clearer view, but the bared horrors of the past were irresistible to ... he could blame himself, or he could be honest. The Anomaly was drawn to the memories that lay spread before him, and new horrors flared as he brushed by, trying to find something present, something immediate.  
  
A nightmare, he thought. It had to be a nightmare. Spencer's dreams were nearly as bad as his own, and after what they'd been through -- after what he'd put Spencer through -- this had to be the backlash. So many horrors, so much like his own... He knew these aches, these regrets. These were not unfamiliar pains. Never quite the same, but enough so that he felt them as if they were his again.  
  
Except that one. That one was new, and he couldn't put it down, couldn't get away from it. He didn't want to see this, but his arms itched in a very different way than they had when his wrists were healing, and he caught himself rubbing the backs of his nails against his forearms. He didn't want to know this -- but this was real, he suddenly realised. The itch was real. The strap that rubbed against that scab... but the smell was wrong. The taste was wrong. The taste was foul, but it wasn't _that_. (And he realised he wouldn't have known, but Spencer did.) It was just sleeping with your mouth open foul, which was still gross, but different. The ache in the side of his head -- their head -- was definitely real. That was swelling. Not bleeding, but definitely swelling -- throbbing with a sickly warmth.  
  
And honestly, he had the sense that panic was an entirely appropriate response to the situation. He grabbed his phone and it vibrated in his hand -- a missed text from how long ago? A moment of confusion, and then the door opened, as he sat up. Hafidha coming home... with Mary. Oh, he did not have time for this, right now.  
  
So, he skipped it.  
  
"I need you to find Spencer," were the first words out of his mouth. "Something is seriously wrong, and he's got a head injury."  
  
"He's in Baltimore," Mary said. "I just saw him a couple of days ago. He needed some help going undercover."  
  
"Does Frank know?" Hafs asked, crossing the room to pick up Chaz's laptop. She didn't need it, but it would be faster than not using it, faster than going upstairs for her own.  
  
"I just found out. I'm still finding out."  
  
"You drive." Hafidha pointed at Mary. "We're going to Baltimore."

* * *

"Ah, where's Reid?" Prentiss leaned into the room, taking in the team and the distinct lack of Reid.  
  
Rossi marked his place and looked up. "Isn't he with Montoya?"  
  
"I was hoping he had the sense to go get some sleep." JJ moved another line on the map and stepped back to look at it, again.  
  
"Agent _Gates_ just called me, because she couldn't reach him, and I said he probably wasn't taking calls because he was in the middle of something. I assumed he was with Montoya. Except Gates says she has it on good authority that Reid's being held against his will somewhere in Baltimore."  
  
JJ sighed and rubbed her face. "Spence, no."  
  
"What's Montoya say?" Alvez asked.  
  
"Montoya assumed he'd gone to bed, and decided not to call and wake him up." Prentiss raised her eyebrows and gave the team a pointed look. "It's Reid. I'm just going to assume something's actually wrong, until we know otherwise. Gates should have his location soon. Montoya's going to talk to some people Reid might have gone back to interview again. JJ, I want you and Alvez to meet him, see if there's a way to make that faster."  
  
"None of you seem surprised by this..." Lewis observed, looking around the room.  
  
"We're not." JJ pulled her coat on as she left, Alvez close behind her.  
  
"He's very good at what he does," Rossi said, carefully. "It's just that sometimes he's a little too good at what he does, and he has this uncanny way of putting himself exactly where the investigation needs to go, but with no one watching his back. A lot like Gideon, actually."  
  
"I kept hoping he'd grow out of that," Prentiss muttered, checking her phone again.

* * *

Reid was, in a word, resigned. This was going to be horrific, and he'd walked right into it. And he knew better. He absolutely knew better. On the other hand, he was pretty sure he'd found the killer, which was a much less comforting thought than it would've been if he hadn't been face down in four-point restraints.  
  
But, Chaz was with him. And that was what no one else knew. No matter what happened to him, there would be a witness. Someone would know what happened here. And he apologised for that. But, as Chaz settled in, as the first panic of waking up passed over them both, Reid realised that if he could convey where he last remembered being, Chaz could call his team for him.  
  
A voice cut into his thoughts. "It's no use pretending to be asleep, Detective Spencer. You've been awake for fifteen minutes. I've been waiting to see when you'd start calling out or struggling, but you're not going to, are you? You've already given up."  
  
"I haven't had a good night's sleep in three weeks, and this seemed like as good a time as any to catch up. It doesn't seem like I'll be going anywhere, any time soon," Reid retorted, still trying to figure out what he was attached to. Whatever it was dug into his brow and his cheeks, but left his nose and mouth free. His shoulders were on the wrong side of an edge, and he knew if he thrashed, he'd dislocate at least one. "So, unless you need my attention..."  
  
"What I need are answers, you glittering worm. Who would have thought one of the Blackbird's children would turn to the law? Did he put you there to watch out for him? To make sure he's never found?"  
  
Reid blinked, eyelids scraping against the edges of the wood -- wood! -- that was pressed against his face. "My father is a lawyer, and I have no idea what you're talking about."  
  
It crossed his mind that this might be unrelated to the case, and the man might actually be talking about his father. Not that anything like this had ever happened before, but he really wouldn't be surprised by it. But, no, that voice... he was sure that voice was Reston.  
  
"You traded your life for what he offered. I can see it on your arms. Did you think I wouldn't know? That I couldn't see? You sold yourself to him for the poppies. Or maybe you didn't. Was it your daughter? Your wife? Your partner, Detective? What did you trade him for a lifetime of passivity and emptiness?"  
  
Reid still had no idea what was going on, and that was not a good position to be in. Not that any of this was a good position to be in, but that was going to make it extremely difficult to talk his way out of the rest of it. "How do you know so much about those deals?"  
  
"My grandfather sold my aunt for a lifetime of morphine, traded her in for some changeling child who grew up to murder her husband, and when they caught her -- when they caught her she split apart like clay, like a shattered pot, and two serpents crawled out of what was left of her. A changeling sent to poison my family, all because the Blackbird got my grandfather on the poppy and offered him an easy deal -- a sickly child for a lifetime of never having to care again."  
  
"But, why do you call him the Blackbird?" Reid asked, as if the rest of it had made perfect sense. And it did, in a way. There was a strange conflation of fairytales in there. Reston had probably overheard discussions about his aunt and uncle as a child and mistaken what was being said. 'That woman was a snake' took on whole other meanings to a child too young to really grasp metaphor.  
  
"What do you call him?"  
  
"I don't know his name. I don't call him anything."  
  
"Do you see how little you mean to him? He won't even give you something to call him. He draws you in and buys your favour with a lure you can never turn away from, and you'll dance his tune until he lets you die."  
  
That was an interesting turn of phrase. Reid tried to sound shocked. "You mean he's _killing people_?"  
  
"Did I say he was? Ah, I suppose I did. But, no, not his own. They live just as long as he wills them to, even the ones who would rather die. But, that's the point, you see. I've found a way to kill them. To make them stay dead. But, you... you confused me. You made me think Cherry had survived, that she'd wandered off into the night or he'd found her and taken her away. 'Missing', you told me."  
  
"She _was_ missing," Reid insisted. "It takes time for a body that's been found to be connected with a missing persons report, especially when it happens so quickly. It was all less than a day from the time she'd last been seen, and we didn't get word the body had been found, that it was her, until later. It's why I came out to see the place, for myself. I was hoping it would tell me something about what happened to her."  
  
"I happened to her. I gave her the one escape I could offer. I tested my blend against his strength in her, and I prevailed."  
  
"But, wouldn't it be more effective, intravenously?"  
  
"Of course not. Don't be a fool." A laugh sliced through the darkness. "One cannot fight him on his own ground. No, an ambush is the only way."  
  
"Then why haven't you ambushed _him_? Why are you attacking his victims? You've said it yourself; these people can't take care of themselves! They're being used!"  
  
"And that is why _you_ are here. I hoped to do more testing, but twenty will be enough. It will have to be."  
  
Twenty. There had been one every night, and they'd missed two bodies. ... Or two survivors, but Reid found that much less likely.  
  
"You will lead me to him, or him to me. Either way, this will end. I have finally been granted a serum even the Blackbird cannot survive."  
  
"What makes you think he'll come for me, when he didn't come for anyone else?"  
  
"For the simple reason, Detective Spencer, that you are still alive. None of them survived long enough to be found. I would not be doing this now, but the simple fact is that you are an officer of the law, and if I must remove you -- and I truly must -- then I have run out of time for perfecting my endgame. It is time to remove this creature that has plagued the world for a hundred years or more."  
  
The sound of something being dragged across the floor followed, probably wrapped in nylon, and on so many levels, Reid didn't want to know what it was, genuinely hoped he wouldn't find out.  
  
"And now, you must tell me everything you know about this man, this _thing_. How did he come to you? What did he offer you? Have you ever seen his face?"  
  
"I told you, I don't know who you mean. You can't just assume that there's only one way to get heroin in this city. Every time we pick up a dealer, there's another one, and I can tell you we don't have a Blackbird, so you're going to have to help me figure out who you're talking about. I'll tell you everything I know, but I have to make sure I'm talking about the right person."  
  
"The one you made your deal with, obviously!"  
  
Denying that he'd made a deal was just going to piss Reston off, but Reid still had no idea who this 'Blackbird' was. Still, if Reston believed Blackbird was something out of a fairytale... "You should know I can't do that. He protects himself. Ask me another way. Describe a person to me, and maybe I can tell you about the person you describe."  
  
"A geas?" Surprise in the voice, this time. "I should have expected it, when none of them could tell me what I needed to know. Thank you, Detective. He would protect himself, wouldn't he? Well, maybe you can tell me about some other people, and we'll see what you can say. Tell me about a short woman with straight brown hair. She wears glitter lipstick and her shoes are always pink."  
  
Reid had to think about that. It wasn't Cherry and it wasn't Nadine, but-- Linda. He'd seen the shoes in the apartment, and Linda was brown haired and shorter than Nadine. "I don't know her very well, because this isn't my part of town, but I think I know who you mean. One of Cherry's friends. She's a prostitute. She's very direct, not coy at all. I think she uses plain soaps, because she doesn't smell like much, in the morning. What else do you want to know?"

* * *

"Montoya just called. He found Reid's car and a witness who says she saw him walking toward where the last body was found." Prentiss tossed the keys to Rossi. "You drive. I'm going to be on the phone." She pointed to Lewis. "Get an ambulance. Tell them to come in quiet and to wait until we tell them it's clear. They need to be prepared for a massive amphetamine overdose."  
  
"Or, if we're very lucky, a gunshot wound." Rossi opened the door. "I really hope Reid shoots this son of a bitch."


	11. Chapter 11

Reid refused to scream _again_ , but Reston had seemed unconcerned with the noise or the lack thereof. It wasn't the sound that mattered, but the blood. And blood there was. Reid could feel it still spilling down his arm, not as quickly as it had after that first slice that had taken him so by surprise, but enough to remind him it wasn't a shallow cut. The torn skin still burned, and his shoulder ached from when he'd tried to pull away from the sudden pain, forgetting he was bound at the wrist.  
  
"He'll come for you," Reston assured him. "Without him, you'll fall in your own time. You'll be _different_ , then."  
  
"You hope he's the one coming for me." Reid took a chance. "My partner will have noticed I didn't come back when I said I was going to. The _police_ are going to get here before the Blackbird does, and then where does that leave you?"  
  
"The police are never anywhere on time, in this neighbourhood. No, I think we'll see my feathered foe, before long."  
  
Reid still didn't know where he was, but he knew the sound of a creaking stair. "He's got a knife!" he shouted, hoping to give whoever that was a bit of warning and a bit of cover. Reston would lose time looking at him. Not a lot of time, but hopefully enough.  
  
Rapid footsteps from two directions, then. A scuffle -- rustling, grunting, a quiet expletive and then a bark of triumph. And finally, a howl of agony.  
  
"It doesn't matter, now! This time, I've done it! This time you're not coming back!" Reston cried, and a few stumbling steps followed. "I would've let you free, Detective, but you betrayed me. Now, no one knows where you are but the _thing_ dying on the floor. You could've met a better end!"  
  
Reid could hear Reston limping down the stairs, and then a muffled shifting of cloth, behind him.  
  
"A moment," said an Italian accented voice. "I will come to you."  
  
"Did he stab you? If you can get even one of my hands free, I can try to help."  
  
"No, only a needle. I put the knife in his foot." A breathy laugh followed. "He thinks he can poison me. He thinks he _wants_ to poison me."  
  
"He _has_ poisoned you. You may not have long to live. That syringe contained a large dose of some kind of amphetamine. Twenty people have already died from it."  
  
The sound of vomiting followed. "No, no. He _thinks_ he has poisoned me. I'm sorry you became involved. I didn't realise what was happening, until after you approached me. But, this will end, soon. You are a policeman, and we are still alive. I stabbed the man. He will not get far. A moment, please. I promise I will be able to release you."  
  
More vomiting ensued, and Reid wished there were anything he could do to stop the man from dying. "After I... _Doctor?_ Are you the one they call the Doctor? You were wearing a long coat with a veil, when I saw you."  
  
"Diplomat, actually." More panting and then a metallic rattling sound. "But, yes. I am called Doctor, by those I have helped. You can call me Aurelio. I'm certain that will be important to some sort of report, later. Aurelio Merlo, envoy from Naples."  
  
"Diplomatic immunity," Reid drawled, face still mashed against the boards supporting him.  
  
"I have no reason to claim it. We are victims, you and I." More rustling cloth followed, this time much closer. "You will forgive me, if I do not stand, I hope."  
  
Reid could feel something tugging at his ankle, a hand holding his leg in place, and then the blood rushed painfully back into one foot. "Thank you."  
  
"You are bleeding extensively. Would you like me to sew that for you, or will you take your chances with an ambulance?"  
  
Reid swallowed, considering the answer that waited on the tip of his tongue. "No painkillers."  
  
"You are allergic to lidocaine?"  
  
"Lido--? No. No, that's fine. Sorry, this whole case has been about opioids, and I know how deep that is..."  
  
Aurelio made a small sound of amusement that nearly blended in with a few small thumps and scrapes. "I am not in the habit of sharing my laudanum. It is mine, for an old wound that never healed. You'll forgive me if I leave you bound, until I'm done sewing? I don't want you to jerk away from the needle and do more damage. This will sting, but it should stop, soon. Let me know."  
  
And Reid knew. He'd had enough stitches in his lifetime. "It's going to scar pretty badly, isn't it?"  
  
"Any doctor who lets it scar is an idiot. I'll give you something to put on it, as it heals. In a few months, maybe you'll still have a line, there, but only if you usually scar badly. No, you'll be nearly unmarked, on the surface. Under the surface is another matter."  
  
"Are your hands steady enough for this?" Reid asked, after a long moment, as he waited for the numbness to spread from the initial burning chill. "I still have concerns about the amphetamine."  
  
"I have stitched gunshot wounds on the back of a moving elephant. I assure you, it would take more than a bit of amphetamine to make my hands tremble."  
  
"An _elephant_? I... Where--?" Reid stopped trying to make sense of any of it. There would be time to worry about what made sense, later. "Then you should probably start before that wears off."  
  
He could feel the pulling at his skin, but not the punctures, as the wound drew closed.  
  
The stitches went in smoothly, evenly, as Aurelio told the story. "Where was I on an elephant? In India. There was a massacre of an entire village over fears of plague. Only a handful of survivors, and there were still riflmen in the hills, trying to murder anyone who tried to leave. They drove off most of the caravan, but a few of us got to the survivors, managed to carry them out under cover fire and get them on the last elephant. Not a one had any kind of plague or illness, except the one who'd nearly gone septic. He'd stepped on a rake that went through his foot. He lived, but we had to take the leg below the knee." He tied the last knot and snipped the thread. "Wash that, before you wrap it. I don't have enough of anything to rinse more than the wound."  
  
Another snip, and Reid could move his arm. He went to pull it up, to turn his head to get a better look, but Aurelio's voice stopped him.  
  
"Don't move. Let me get the other side, first. There are two parts, and they were stable when you were tied down, but I'd rather you not knock one down and rip your other arm off. I don't think I have the equipment for that on me."  
  
Reid chuffed in amusement. "How did you find me?"  
  
"As terrible as it is to say, I wasn't looking for you. I was looking for the man who attacked us." More rustling cloth and another snip. "My secretary called in some favours. My interest was in the deaths of several women, in the area, women I'd come to know, to care for." Another snip. "Let me help you up. You don't want to fall on that arm."  
  
Reid's first thought, when he felt the arms around him, shifting his weight, was of Chaz. This was nearly the same thinness, but moreso, somehow. And the stench of sickly-sweet fermentation. Of course Aurelio had survived -- he was _anomalous_.   
  
"You need to eat," he said, as Aurelio helped him sit on the floor. "I know why you're alive, and you need to eat. Your body--"  
  
"You've met us before, then? You must know why I wasn't as afraid as you thought I should be." Aurelio sat, as well, leaning against a broken wall.  
  
"I do. I'm... very close to some other people who are like you. Two of them are on their way here, right now, and I think they can help with some of the more ... difficult questions you're probably going to be asked. They'll also make sure you get food, before too much else. Whatever other role you may have played in this, you saved my life, and the least I can do is make sure you're questioned by people who understand your condition."  
  
"Thank you. I didn't mean to become this involved, and I certainly didn't mean to involve you. It wasn't until I understood the drug they'd been given that I knew what was happening, that this was a series of murders meant to draw me out where I could be struck." Aurelio shook his head, tiredly, and pulled a silver flask from somewhere in the voluminous heap of blue-black cloth he wore, taking a small sip. "Had he managed to inject me in the neck, he might have gotten the best of me, but the needle struck me in the abdomen. I'll have to pull the rest of it out, later. I know it broke. I can still feel it, but this is hardly the time or the place. But, he believed injecting me with his poisons would be enough, otherwise he would have stayed and made a more damaging attempt. Still, he doesn't concern me. Michael Reston is simply a pawn." He sighed and squeezed his hands shut, every knuckle popping. "I would like a roast and a tall glass of gin, when all this is over. Perhaps you would take them with me?"  
  
"I would love a glass of gin," Reid admitted, trying to rub the feeling back into his hands without putting too much pressure on the stitches in his forearm. His distrust of alcohol from a few days ago paled against the idea of sipping gin until the trembling in his shoulders and the chattering of his teeth stopped.

* * *

"I'm telling you, that's where the phone is," Hafidha insisted, as they got off the highway. "No, some systems have a ten metre margin of error, but _I don't_. I don't know where Spencer is, but I'm telling you you're standing right next to his phone."  
  
"It's probably in the trash can," Chaz muttered around a mouthful of sandwich loaf. It really hadn't been the best recipe he'd come back from Nebraska with, and he wasn't sure why he'd thought it was a good idea, but it would keep his brain working until they got where they were going. "He's in a building. A walk-up. Second floor? Third floor? Not higher than that, definitely stairs. No windows, where he is. There's someone with him."  
  
"Uh, yeah, Chazzie, we know. There's a killer with him."  
  
"No, someone's rescuing him. Smells like barf and ketosis."  
  
Mary shot him a look and glanced back down at the GPS before her eyes met the road again. "Ah, that's _not_ a good sign. Do we have an ambulance? How close is the ambulance? Am I going to be the only doctor on the scene? I'm gonna be pissed, if it's just me."  
  
"The guy's a gamma. The guy's an _old_ gamma." Chaz stared into space in amazement, snippets of something involving elephants and rifles threading dizzily through his mind, as he and Reid tried to make heads or tails of the man buried under all the cloth. "Some of us survive it..."  
  
"Please, we've got a lifespan of ... well, you're the longest surviving anomalous individual on record, aren't you? I think you finally passed the old man, because he was only what, thirty years or so? I know he was in his seventies, when he died, but he turned late, didn't he?"  
  
"I think somebody just broke my record."  
  
"I think Tory's going to cry when we steal his case again."

* * *

"Someone ran out of here, bleeding." Alvez pointed to the marks on the sidewalk. "It's on one side, about the length of a step, and they go that way."  
  
Rossi nodded. "Let's take a walk. Emily, call Reid again?"  
  
Prentiss shook her head. "Straight to voicemail. Gates is right. The phone's probably in the dumpster."  
  
"Let's go see who got shot, this time." Rossi started down the block at a good clip, following the half-dried smears of blood. If it was Reid, though, it was likely he'd be looking for a phone, and heading up toward the avenue would've been a better choice. Which meant it either wasn't Reid, or there was something more important in this direction. "I'm hoping it's not Reid."  
  
"And we go up," JJ said to Montoya, drawing her gun and gesturing toward the door.  
  
A small hatchback swung around the corner from the avenue and pulled to a stop that probably involved the emergency brake, in the middle of the street, and Montoya's phone went off as three people got out of the car.  
  
"Villette just relieved us of this case," Montoya said, checking the message.  
  
"The hell he did." JJ opened the door, and Chaz ran after her.  
  
"Tory, I love you, the case is yours, but do not come up these stairs," Chaz hissed as he squeezed past Montoya and followed JJ up, as quietly as he could.  
  
The blood passed through a door near the landing, the spots smaller, here, but less evenly spaced. JJ glanced behind herself and saw no one else on the stairs. Strange, she could swear one of them had come up... Still, she peered through the open door into the darkness beyond, debating whether turning on a light was worth the hazard, wondering where the breeze that swept past her had come from.  
  
"Chaz, I hope that's you," Reid called from somewhere in the back of the room, beyond where dim light spilled in from another door.  
  
"Sorry, Spence, it's just me," JJ called back. "How worried do I need to be?"  
  
" _I'm fine_. The UnSub is Michael Reston, and he's been stabbed in the foot, but I don't know where he went. I was a little tied up at the time."  
  
"That's the blood out here. Rossi and Alvez are following it. You going to keep being fine, if I come in?"  
  
"Yes, but don't trip on anything, or you might not be. There's another victim with me. He's a little weak, but we can probably make it down the stairs. If you've got a light, that would help."  
  
JJ finally went for a flashlight, catching Chaz's back, halfway across the room. "Okay, I lied, Villette is here. How the hell did you get past me?"  
  
Chaz shrugged. "You weren't looking where I was standing." He produced a bottle of orange juice from one of his coat pockets and held it out to what looked like a pile of rags against the wall, past a pair of sawhorse style barriers. "Heard you might be hungry."  
  
"Grazie." The pile of rags extended a long, jet black arm to accept the bottle. Opera gloves, JJ thought. "You are the ones my unfortunate companion spoke of. I can see the resemblance in your face."  
  
"And I can't see your face, so I'm going to take your word for it, for now. But, yeah. If he told you someone was coming and they'd bring food, that's me. Don't leave home without it." Chaz nodded and crouched down to get a better look at both of them. "Ah, Spencer? Anybody tell you you're bleeding?"  
  
"I need a medic, up here," JJ called down the stairs.  
  
"No, you don't," Reid insisted. "It's already stitched up. I don't want a medic. I want a tall glass of gin and a warm blanket. I'm fine, JJ. I just got stabbed a little. I have cut _myself_ worse than this."  
  
"He's fine," the pile of cloth declared. "I _am_ a medic. I served in several wars in places most of America has never heard of. He needs, more than a doctor, a _shower_ , and a good antibacterial ointment. I can provide only one of those."  
  
"And you are...?" JJ finally crossed the room to get a better look.  
  
"Aurelio Merlo. I am your killer's intended victim, and it involves a dispute that has nothing to do with him. Your killer is merely a pawn, if a very effective one. He's been convinced that I'm in some way responsible for his or his family's misfortunes, by someone I'm afraid the ... Italian police are going to have to handle. The feud is ongoing, but this is the first time it's escalated to the murder of this many entirely innocent people. This is the first time it has involved a _foreign_ killer."  
  
Chaz held an arm out to Reid. "This is a discussion we should have somewhere that's not a collapsing building, maybe over a bag of tacos."  
  
"Please." Reid let himself be dragged into a standing position, spending a moment just leaning on Chaz, letting the room stop spinning, before he stepped away. JJ caught him as he stumbled over the leg of one of the sawhorses. "I was tied to those," he said, finally recognising what they must have been. "There should be blood. Reston cut me so 'the Blackbird' would come."  
  
"You'd have bled out, if I hadn't been looking for the man," Aurelio said, as Chaz helped him to his feet, the layers of cloth resolving into a heavy monastic robe and an ankle-length coat. Once again, his face remained half-covered beneath a veil.  
  
"Take Spencer back to wherever you're staying, let him get a shower and some food, and have Montoya take a statement," Chaz suggested, shifting himself to bear more of Aurelio's limited weight. "Mr Merlo and I need to have a conversation about some anomalous elements of this case, before I sign off on it and hand it back to you."  
  
"Please, call me Aurelio," the man in question protested amiably, satchel disappearing under his coat as he buttoned it with obviously stiff fingers, still leaning heavily on Chaz.  
  
"I think the stairs will be faster if I carry you," Chaz offered.  
  
"I think the stairs would be much faster if I fell down them. I would prefer to avoid either eventuality, thank you," Aurelio replied with the humour of a man who had been through worse.  
  
JJ watched the two bone-thin men make their way back out to the stairs and then turned back to Reid. "And what do you think I should do with you, since Agent Villette couldn't be bothered to ask?"  
  
"Villette doesn't need to ask, because he's right. Do you think we can get Chinese between here and the motel? That sounds even better than tacos, right now." Reid decided not to push his luck about the gin.  
  
"Spence, you can have whatever you want, if you promise me you're never going to do this again."  
  
"You hate it when I go to a crime scene and stare at the walls for an hour. I'm probably going to do it again."


	12. Chapter 12

Reid looked like he was going to pass out into his dinner, as JJ tried to keep him talking long enough to give a statement. Montoya would be there any minute, and Reid sat in the same stiff wooden chair that was in half the motel rooms in America, wearing pyjamas, with the thin blankets from both beds draped around him. He leaned his head on the wall beside him, as he sipped a cup of coffee he was sure wasn't going to do any good. Whatever was in the salve Aurelio had given him, on the other hand, was definitely helping. The swelling around the stitches was already almost gone, and the ache in his arm had gone with it.  
  
"How did Agent Gates know to look for you? To call us?" JJ asked, and Reid was so tired, he nearly told the truth.  
  
"I have no idea. You should ask her," he said instead.  
  
"Then why were you assuming Villette was coming up the stairs, and not us?"  
  
"I could hear him. The stairs are wood, and I just spent three weeks with him in a house with wooden stairs." Reid smiled dizzily, eyes drifting shut. "It didn't matter why he was there. What mattered was that I could be pretty sure it was him, and that meant I could stop wondering if the Doctor or I were in good enough shape to get to somewhere we could call for help. Which we would have. I was just waiting to get the feeling back in my feet. On the list of things I do not advise: being tightly bound across a pair of sawhorses. It's not so great for the circulation. Which, honestly, is probably part of why I didn't lose more blood."  
  
"You still lost enough that I really don't think you should be sitting here. You should've let us take you to the hospital, Spence."  
  
"It's just blood. You know what you're supposed to do if you lose blood? Eat and sleep." He shoved his sleeve up and stretched his arm to the side, wincing a bit when his shoulder complained. "Look, it's clean, it's not swollen, and I'll wrap it before I go to bed. There's nothing else wrong with me that can't be fixed with kung pao chicken and sleep. For the record? _Now_ , I'm tired. Now, I'm ten hours of sleep and spending tomorrow at a desk tired. But, just because I should spend a few days sitting down does not mean I need to spend them in a hospital."  
  
JJ looked at the stitches that wound from one side of Reid's wrist to the other side of his elbow, and then she looked again. "That room was filthy. You got stabbed with a knife I can't imagine was clean in an abandoned building. I'm pretty sure that should be swelling or leaking or... something."  
  
"Merlo said the salve would take care of the swelling, as long as I washed my arm before I tried to use it. And he did disinfect it, before he started stitching." Reid paused, debating whether he was going to drop food in his lap if he tried to eat. "That said, I have been sewn back together enough times to be aware of the fact that this is not a normal reaction. Whatever's in that salve, it's a fantastic anti-inflammatory, and I want to know what else it works on."  
  
"So, some random homeless guy gives you a weird cream and you just ... use it?"  
  
"If he were homeless, more people would know him. More people would be able to find him. And the few people who have seen him are people who recovered from serious wounds because he treated them. You'll forgive me if I'm willing to accept a neatly packaged herbal salve from a man who was willing and entirely able to stitch my arm back together -- very neatly, I might add -- under less than ideal conditions. And according to Montoya, who _has_ investigated Merlo's work, the only thing wrong with his methods is that they're outdated. Apparently, he uses a stitching technique that went out during the First World War." Reid glanced at his arm and looked back at JJ. "I can't say I have any complaints. It's been two or three hours, and I can already be pretty sure I've given _myself_ worse scars than this is going to be."  
  
JJ looked like she might argue, before she realised that she'd stand a better chance once he'd slept. "Okay, but I'm getting the gauze, and I'm going to wrap that for you, because there's no way you can do it with one hand."  
  
"I probably _could_ , I just wouldn't do it very _well_." Reid closed his eyes again. "Thanks, JJ."

* * *

By the time they managed to convince Montoya to go talk to Reid and the rest of the BAU team that Aurelio was not a suspect, it was late enough that good food and privacy were not going to go together easily, and Chaz eventually gave in on the food quality. He'd already eaten what was left of the sandwich loaf. Taco Bell was not going to be the worst decision he could make, in what was left of the day. But, the car was still small -- smaller with four of them in it -- and while he was absolutely confident he could eat and drive at the same time, all four of them eating and having this conversation was going to be a little difficult in quarters this close.  
  
"I would welcome you, in my office," Aurelio finally suggested, carefully eating a taco in such a way that his gloved hands only ever touched the wrapper. "Make the next right, park in the alley on the left, and ring the bell at the blue door. My secretary is still waiting to hear from me, and I can promise a great deal more leg room."  
  
As appealing as the offer sounded, Chaz remained aware they were dealing with a gamma, and one none of them knew. But, as he reached out to skim the surface of Aurelio's mind, to decide the intent behind the offer, he skidded right off it.  
  
"I have a sibling who can do that," Aurelio said, catching Chaz's eye in the mirror. "I was still young the last time someone managed. But, you're sensibly concerned about your own welfare, and I can't be offended. Leave a message for whomever you'd like. Check in however often you need to. But, you won't find a more private place to have a conversation, at this hour, and as that seems to be the primary concern, I offer my place of business."  
  
"You still get wifi and cel signals, speaking of privacy?" Hafidha asked, around a mouthful of burrito.  
  
"There are rooms in which one does not, but the room I intended receives the usual communications signals. If you would prefer a silent room, that can be arranged."  
  
"Are you some kind of lawyer or something?" Mary twisted around in her seat as Chaz parked the car beside the aforementioned blue door, which appeared to occupy another parking space. If someone parked between the lines, the door would never open.  
  
"A diplomat, actually. A certain amount of care must be taken, in my line of work, to protect the materials and the people I work with." Aurelio finished the taco and slid the wrapper back into the bag. "Will you be joining me, then?"  
  
Chaz did not have a good feeling about this, but he'd walked into a room full of Langly's anomalous clones, in the last month, and that hadn't gotten anyone killed. In the end, he found he was more interested in what they might learn, here, if he was right about Aurelio -- and the comment about the sibling suggested that he was.  
  
"I'm all for putting more food in my mouth than ends up in my lap," he said, swinging open the car door and folding himself out into the alley, which was really more of a narrow street, a little too slim for regular traffic, but with any number of regularly-spaced doors facing off it. The blue door was not one of them, sitting, as it did, a bit to the side of another door. And that bothered him in ways he couldn't explain without sounding like he'd entirely lost his mind.  
  
"Yeah, so I went out for dinner with a fed, bumped into another fed, drove up the pike to rescue another fed, and now we're visiting the carefully concealed offices of an international man of mystery." Mary shook her head and leaned past Chaz to push the button on the doorframe.  
  
"I'm sorry," a parody of a film noir secretary's voice spilled out of an unseen speaker, "His Excellency isn't available right now."  
  
"Artemisia, dear, it is I." Aurelio spoke directly to the door, and after a moment, it swung open, revealing first a tall woman with elaborately coiffed strawberry hair, dressed in a bright red jacket and skirt with black trim.  
  
"What's happened to you, N--" The woman glanced over his shoulder and saw the rest of them, her eyes completely colourless for a split second. "What room would you like, Excellency?"  
  
"Come in, come in. It's not good to have the door open so long." Aurelio stepped out of the doorway and carefully peeled off his coat, handing it to the red-haired woman. As he turned, finally without the hood, the upper half of his face remained concealed behind an ornate mask, painted in peacock colours. A long, black braid draped around his neck like a scarf, and would likely, if unwrapped, hang below his knees. "Unless one of our guests has a request for something more secure, I thought I might just stay right here. I may need your assistance locating some histories, Artie."  
  
"Sure!" Two syllables, as Artemisia held her hand out for the coats of the guests. "Shall I lay the usual table, Excellency?"  
  
"Tea?" Aurelio asked. "Something stronger, perhaps?"  
  
"We brought our own." Hafidha shrugged apologetically and held up her cup, as she took in the room she'd stepped into. A thick, deep green carpet covered the floor, and her eyes followed the path between the sage-coloured sofas and their accompanying tea tables to a heavy desk before the windows that occupied the far wall. Windows? Was the building so narrow? But, they weren't the fake LCD windows, that much was sure. Above the sofas hung paintings that looked old, to judge by the frames and the style, and the rest of the open wall space was occupied by shelves containing hundreds of volumes in languages she couldn't read the titles in.  
  
"Just me, then," Aurelio said, leading the way to a pair of couches and their accompanying table. He set his bag and cup down and gestured to a small door in the left wall. "Please, make yourself at home. I'll be just a moment. I wish to remove this broken needle tip, before we continue. If you wish to freshen up, I'll be out of the way in a moment, as I said. Do ask Artemisia for anything you need."  
  
"Thank you." Chaz nodded to him and turned back to Hafs and Mary, who sat beside him. "I am going to say one word, and then I am going to shut up about it. Beale."  
  
"This is a hell of a lot more than probability, platypus." Hafidha looked up at Artemisia, as the woman returned with a glass of gin and a set of coasters, eyeing Aurelio's dripping cup with no small annoyance. Hafidha jammed her own cup between her knees and picked up Aurelio's, wiping the table with a napkin from one of the bags. "Here, let me get that for you."  
  
Artemisia nodded her thanks and set out the coasters, placing the glass of gin on one. "What happened to His Excellency? I know he went out after a murderer, and he came back with you lot."  
  
Mary looked down the sofa at the other two. "Don't look at me. I was in the car."  
  
"I'm sure he'll tell us all what happened, when he comes back from..." Chaz pointed to the door, unwilling to make any assumptions.  
  
"Sewing himself up again, I'm sure." 'Sure' was still two syllables. "You've got everything you need? You change your minds, just give a yell. I'll be right over there." She returned to the heavy desk under the impossible windows that looked out onto a sunlit garden, and went back to work.

* * *

"He drove away before we got near the place," Rossi explained, shaking his head. "The blood ends at the edge of the sidewalk, on the corner, so either someone picked him up, or he was parked the wrong way on the street."  
  
"Garcia tracked down every vehicle this guy owns, at least on paper, and we're looking for all of them. If he's stupid, we'll get lucky, and he's gone to a hospital or back to his house. If not, we're not getting him tonight. He's too far ahead of us, but he's got to stop somewhere, and we know who he is." Alvez stopped and looked at Prentiss. "And Dr Langly asked if we'd send a sample of the blood over to a different lab than usual. She says she can get a rush on it, so we'll know for sure." He handed a card to Prentiss. "Do we know these guys?"  
  
"I don't think we have a contract with them, but there's enough blood on the ground for a few samples, and we've worked with Dr Langly before. If she can get us something faster than our lab -- and I know we're backed up about two weeks on the quick tests, right now -- I'll take it." Prentiss pointed at Lewis. "Give me known associates. We have to start somewhere."

* * *

Aurelio left his satchel by Artemisia's desk, as he returned and took a seat on the other couch. He moved more stiffly, more slowly, and picked up the gin as soon as he sat.  
  
"I could not let that wait a moment longer," he said, producing a small plastic bag from one of his sleeves and handing it to Chaz. "You'll want that, if I'm not mistaken, in case you find the rest of the syringe. I'm afraid it's been cleaned as a side effect of removing it from my person."  
  
"I appreciate that. I'm not sure we'll find the syringe, but if we do..." Chaz realised he had no reasonable pockets to put evidence into, without his jacket, and set the bag on the table.  
  
"Did I hear the blond policewoman call you Villette?" Aurelio asked, after a moment. "I'm not as familiar with the American families. What lineage are you with?"  
  
"Lineage?" Chaz blinked in surprise. "Ah... I'm not sure what you're asking me, but I'm an orphan, so I probably don't know."  
  
Aurelio nodded, as if this were sad, but unsurprising. "Forgive me if I refrain from discussing my own skills; they would only complicate the matter. But, yours, I almost recognise."  
  
"You said you had a sibling..." Chaz watched him carefully.  
  
"I have several siblings, some more closely related than others, so we show a wide variety of talents, in my generation. But, I have a sibling who can... mirror thoughts. It is one of their lesser talents. I wondered if you might be from another branch of that family."  
  
Mary brought her hands up in a 't' shape. "Wait, whoa, no, hang on. You're talking like this is normal. Didn't we..." She looked at Hafidha, beside her. "Don't we have statistics that say this is not normal? Less than point two percent of the population levels of not normal? Which is why my, uh... family is weird?"  
  
"Which lineage are you?" Aurelio asked, politely.  
  
"We're not sure. We just found out we're all adopted," Mary hedged, unwilling to use the word 'clones'. "What about you?"  
  
"Avernine, with all that entails." Aurelio sipped his gin and watched the confusion spread across the faces watching him. "I'm sorry, of course you don't know. You're orphans." He glanced at Hafidha. "You as well?"  
  
She nodded.  
  
"How strange and terrible. My belated condolences." Aurelio finished the glass of gin and set it aside. "But, you're here about a murderer, and I've gotten distracted by the idea of new lineages of the new world. Unfortunately, it's all related. The Querini family has held a grudge against the Merula branch of the Avernines since, oh, the mid-thirteen hundreds. Of course, the Querinis are from Venice and we're from Napoli, so it faded out for a few centuries. We nearly forgot one another, as people went on with their lives locally. One cannot, in fact, hold a grudge forever, if one has other business to attend." He unwrapped another taco as he spoke, hands still gloved in black. "But, about two generations ago, Giovanni Querini found the family history and decided that whatever insult was done nearly seven hundred years in the past is a debt that must be paid in blood. He and his sons have made every effort to drag down our house and the family business -- I may be a diplomat, but I come from a centuries-old house of olive growers. They've used everything at their disposal -- law and government, blockades and boycotts, striking out at our employees. Finally, one of my cousins was terribly injured, which brought the attention of the Italian authorities where it belonged. In the last decade, things have been quite calm, and I was pleased to return the whole of my thoughts to my work. But, now..."  
  
"What makes you think this is the Querinis?" Hafidha asked. "You're in a different country, and none of the victims have anything to do with you. Do they?"  
  
"Not directly." Aurelio took a bite of the taco to give himself time to put his thoughts in order. "Let me begin with why I believe this to be the Querini family. Giovanni and his sons -- specifically _that_ branch of the family -- are working in ... how do I put this, chemical enhancements for certain organisations doing wholly legal experiments in the field. But, not everything they create goes into the testing stages. Some things are too dangerous to use, and are merely proof of point. I'm familiar with Giovanni's work, because I also negotiate with this organization in other contexts, and the research is important to certain treaties and contracts. When I became aware of what was being used to kill these people, I recognised it immediately as something that had been scheduled for destruction, which is to say, it should never have left the facility, never mind having been transported internationally. This is a critical diplomatic concern, for any number of reasons, and I will not be permitted to pursue it to its conclusion -- for obvious reasons."  
  
"You said earlier that the victims were meant to draw you out. I'm curious what you meant by that." Chaz watched the startlingly blue eyes behind the mask sharpen and then close.  
  
"Do you know it nearly didn't work? There were only five victims I was interested in, at first. Five seemed like so many, so close together, and yet not all at once. Five prostitutes, six if you count the last death. It's difficult work, you know, and I assist where I can. Medically, mostly. I delivered one of those women's baby, last year, in a room I suspect had once been a closet. It was her death that caught my attention, and the others surrounded it, wherever I looked." Aurelio waved a hand. "But, my work with the less fortunate is well known, even if I am not. Stories circulate that I'm drawn by suffering and vanish into the night. If that were true, more people would be saved. No, I use the more common senses, and I do not turn away when I might be able to help. As the detective I was found with mentioned while we were waiting, this killer seemed to believe that the blood of heroin addicts would draw me to him. Your detective is incredibly fortunate I was already seeking the killer."  
  
"Still not sure how you're still alive, if he injected you with that stuff." Mary turned sideways into the corner of the couch, to better watch Aurelio.  
  
"I have trained in medicine. It helps a great deal." Aurelio eyed the scar that crept up over the base of Chaz's thumb. "But, we heal quickly, and I think you know that."  
  
"Your medical knowledge makes it easier to recover." Chaz looked surprised, but nodded. "I should have expected that. Which brings me to something I meant to ask you. Your talk of lineages leads me to think you were born, ah... as we are, like I was. But, we don't live very long lives, so I have to ask -- how old _are_ you? I'm pretty sure I hold the current American record for surviving our condition."  
  
Aurelio's eyes widened in shock and his shoulders straightened. " _You_? But, you're ... older than you look, aren't you. Still young, though."  
  
"I'm thirty-six."  
  
"No, that's..." Aurelio's mouth opened and closed a few times before he found words. "The Italian government assures me I'll be turning sixty-seven, Tuesday next. I look little older than you are."  
  
Chaz caught the words, knew Hafidha was already checking. "The Italian government says. And what's the truth?"  
  
"The truth, Mr Villette, is that we are very difficult to kill. You and I were born to it. We're no changeling children, like some unfortunates. Nature may come for us eventually, but the only deaths I'm sure of in my own family have been to war -- burning, explosions, crushed under fallen buildings for too long to be saved. If there is not some fault in the New World lines, you will live a _very_ long time."  
  
"How old are you?" Chaz pressed.  
  
"I don't know," Aurelio replied, and this time, he was telling the truth.


	13. Chapter 13

"Excuse me, _what the fuck_?" Mary leaned into view around Hafidha. "How the hell do you not know how old you are?"  
  
"How do you know?" Aurelio asked, amusement in his eyes that didn't quite reach his thin lips. "You know because someone told you, someone who was old enough to remember for you, until you could remember for yourself. I don't know. It was never important, when I was a child. As a man, I picked an otherwise important date and celebrated it. I've been celebrating it a good number more than sixty-seven years."  
  
"Wait, that's not..." Hafidha studied Aurelio as well as she could, with the volume of cloth he wore. His arms were obviously thin, like hers, like Chaz's, even with the long leather gloves adding bulk to them. What she could see of his face was bone-thin and a deathly pallor. Even his lips looked bloodless. "The Anomaly ages the body. You should look older, not younger. If you were born anomalous, you should be _dead_."  
  
"Anomalous? Is that what you call it? Fitting, from a human perspective. Insulting, but fitting. But, you're talking about the changeling children." Aurelio unwrapped another taco, the colour finally coming back to what could be seen of his grey-pale face, turning it a sickly yellow. "The changelings _are_ human. They're touched by rage, by grief, on a level that was never meant to be endured, and some of them die of it. But, some of them become pale impressions of those born to magic, and most of those go mad with whatever drove them to it. They sicken with the grief that drives them. They rarely live even as long as humans of their backgrounds would do otherwise."  
  
Chaz glanced at Hafidha and then looked back at Aurelio, a horrifying suspicion taking form in his mind. _When_ had The Relative converted? _Why_ hadn't his mother? The predisposition, the trauma, and his mother hadn't changed, but he'd become anomalous long before he was born. What the hell was he supposed to do with his life if this wasn't going to kill him? He'd never even considered it, especially not since he'd come back from that time things had gone so, so very wrong. The assumption had always been he'd just die in the line of duty, and there was nothing to worry about. He'd left everything to Hafidha, and if not to her, then in trust for Autumn. But, death had always been an inevitability, and a relatively short-term one, comparatively.  
  
"And what are we?" he asked, lips numb with shock.  
  
"We're not immortal," Aurelio warned. "Never forget that we can be killed, but I think you know that."  
  
"It's harder than it looks," Chaz admitted, the memory churning in his gut.  
  
"But, what we are is ... indefinite. There's no one word for it. We're legends, and as far as I know, we've always existed. What people call you depends on how you behave toward them -- I've personally been called everything from a fairy prince to a demon. I'm neither, for the record. I come from the Avernines, and I am more Avernine than anything else. Usually, we fall in with local custom, wherever we end up. When speaking to one another, we speak of lineages -- they often shape the expressions of our inhumanity. Not always -- sometimes one lineage will overtake another, or something far in the past will reassert itself, or two lineages combined will produce something new." Aurelio paused, studying Chaz. "Orphans. How terrible to come to this alone. No one told you any of this, did they?"  
  
"No one here _knows_ any of this," Hafidha said, diplomatically, wondering how much was true and how much was delusion. The man was definitely who he claimed to be, according to what she could find. _What_ he claimed to be was another matter entirely. Though he did have a very good grip on how the Anomaly worked, which was worth some amount of credit, as far as she was concerned. "Chaz is the only living example of someone we're _certain_ was born anomalous that we've been able to find. There are stories that suggest it's happened before, but there's been no living, breathing example to judge from."  
  
Realisation crossed Aurelio's eyes, and then sadness. "You're a _changeling_. But, still working with the police? I admire your strength, Miss Gates."

* * *

"We found the car."  
  
Rossi and Montoya stood in the doorway, the sun rising behind them. JJ glanced back at where Reid still slept and stepped out, pulling the door closed behind her.  
  
"Where?"  
  
Montoya gestured as if the direction would convey meaning. "Municipal parking lot. We wouldn't have found it until it got towed, but a fight broke out and the responding officer recognised the plate. It's been dumped, meaning Reston had some other way to leave and somewhere else to go."  
  
"No idea _where_ , though," Rossi admitted. "He's not anywhere he holds an interest in, inside the city of Baltimore. People he's done business with aren't answering the phone at this hour, for obvious reasons. He's got no living family, and we're still looking for friends."  
  
"Gates is still with the witness, and she texted me a little bit before you got here -- I forwarded it to Prentiss -- but, we may be looking for an Italian connection. Anything out of Venice, in particular, but if he's been trading in Italy that may be where we should be looking for a contact."  
  
"There's no way he got to the airport before we sent out the alert," Montoya decided, after a moment of horror. "Not if he left his car _there_. And by now, he's missed the last flight."  
  
"Have we given any thought to the idea that the so-called witness may have been a party to the killings?" Rossi asked, giving JJ a loaded look.  
  
JJ shook her head. "Reid swears he's not."  
  
"Reid was legally insane at the time," Montoya drawled.  
  
"Yeah, but that's not _abnormal_ ," Rossi pointed out, with no particular judgement. "He's not kidding when he says he doesn't sleep. He just sort of ... periodically cat-naps and then pretends he wasn't sleeping when someone comes in. And he's _very_ good at that. I have never met another person so instantly and completely coherent straight out of a dead sleep. So, I would expect that if he's sure of something, he's probably right, and if he's not sure of something he won't mention it."  
  
"Which is a pain in the ass," JJ sighed and rubbed her forehead. "And it's how things like this happen."  
  
"Because _you_ have room to talk."  
  
"Fuck you, Dave."  
  
"In your dreams."  
  
"Anyway, he's right. Reid's uncannily right, because there are things he doesn't mention bother him, until he's _sure of them_. It takes him a while to get there, sometimes, but once he does, it's rock solid. I'd say he's exactly as good as he says he is, but he's not. He's _better_." JJ sighed again and tipped her head. "He's just a little quirky."  
  
"I did notice that," Montoya agreed. "So, assuming I take his account at absolute face value, Reston grabbed him for being a convenient junky in the right place at the wrong time, and used his blood to ... summon the intended victim, who somehow survived being injected with an enormous dose of some kind of amphetamine, stitched up the gash in Reid's arm, and walked out of there like fucking royalty, because the slightly more classified arm of your unit needed to debrief him, before the rest of us peasants get a crack at him. And all of this is about Reston's granddad's morphine habit, and the fact his aunt might be a murderer. Still doesn't explain how the hell Reston ended up with the drugs."  
  
"That's the other party," JJ reminded him. "There's a partner. We know there's a partner. Not only did someone pick him up from that parking lot, Reston said to Reid that he was 'granted' the drug, that it was specifically tailored to kill his target. So, Reston's not the--"  
  
A wrenching cry of horror that could've risen from the depths of hell itself was only slightly muffled by the closed door, and Montoya's focus suddenly seized on the wall of the building, counting exits and trying to figure out if Reston had gotten past them, somehow, and come to finish the job.  
  
Rossi put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't."  
  
"Go talk to Prentiss. I'll be there in a few hours. I have to--" JJ gestured to the door and then slipped through it, locking it behind her.  
  
"She's the only one willing to share a room with him," Rossi explained to Montoya, who still looked shaken, as the door closed in their faces.  
  
Reid had finally shocked himself awake and was just starting to realise it as JJ came to sit beside him on the edge of the bed. He sat bolt upright in the middle of the bed, eyes glassy, the covers thrown off and his hands clenched in the sheets beneath, as he panted, otherwise uncannily still, so tense he didn't even tremble.  
  
"Spence? Hey, it's okay. You're in Baltimore. You're safe. I'm right here, and nothing's going to come through that door that I can't handle."  
  
Reid looked blankly at her, and for a moment, JJ was afraid he would remember none of it. That happened, sometimes. Somehow, those were the worst. An airless emptiness followed in his wake for days. But, he opened his mouth to speak, confusion in his eyes, and his expression collapsed as he twisted and buried his face against her shoulder, sobbing incoherently. The few words she could pick out included, 'the last', 'die', and 'don't make me do it again'.  
  
"Hey," JJ's voice was soft as she put a firm arm around Reid's back and gently stroked his hair. "It's okay. You're okay, Spence. Just stick with me, tomorrow. Everyone knows you got stabbed. Nobody's going to ask questions if we stick together. Let me handle all the stupid questions and the people checking to make sure you're all right. You just focus on what you need to do, and I won't let anyone get in your way. I know it's hard. It's always hard, but we'll get through this. We always do. You always do."  
  
She should've quit while she was ahead, she thought, as the ragged gasps for a calming breath turned suddenly into an even more panicked set of racking sobs, this time with no words at all. He'd been here, before. They both had. Somehow, in spite of everything -- or maybe because of it -- they'd always taken care of each other, or at least long enough that it felt like always, looking back. And she knew that whatever he was afraid of, it wasn't what had happened, tonight, even though she was sure it hadn't helped.  
  
He made a strangled sound and the sobbing suddenly stopped like a switch had been flipped.  
  
"Oh." Surprised, then: "What?" Confused.  
  
Reid sat up slowly, one hand pressed under his running nose, an entirely different fear in his eyes. Dread, this time, not terror. "I'm sorry," he said, as JJ squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. "I can't-- What did I say?"  
  
"I don't know. You were crying too hard to put words together. I thought you might have been trying to say something about getting abducted again, but I'm really not sure." JJ grimaced and shrugged apologetically, but Reid looked immediately relieved, if no less stressed.  
  
"It was just a nightmare," he told her, half shaking his head before he realised he was still dripping snot on everything. "I'm just going to get--"  
  
JJ handed him the box of tissues off the nightstand. "That?"  
  
Reid squeezed his eyes shut and took a tissue, wiping his hand on the way to his nose. "Thank you." He took a few shaky breaths and blew his nose, still looking a little shocky. "I'm sorry, again. I didn't mean to--" Taking another tissue he wiped at JJ's shoulder. "That is really disgusting, and you deseve better from me."  
  
"Not the first time," she reminded him, tipping her head out of the way to let him do this. She'd learned it settled him to be able to at least make the effort to clean up after himself. "Probably not the last time. Besides, I'm used to snot on my shoulder. Parent, remember?"  
  
That finally got a reaction, an embarrassed look somewhere between a smile and a wince with a faint flush that crept high across his cheeks. Reid pressed the heel of his hand against his eye, feeling the way the stitches pulled as he bent his wrist.   
  
"I'm not your child, JJ. I shouldn't be leaving bodily fluids on your shoulder." He leaned past her to pick up his phone off the nightstand, entirely grateful to himself for having remembered to thoroughly wipe it down with rubbing alcohol, before he went to sleep. "I, ah... I need to take care of something, and then, yes, I will go back to bed. I just need to ... to check on something."  
  
JJ nodded her understanding. "None of us called Frank. You weren't gone long enough to really consider it, and anything he could do to help, Gates was already doing. But, you should probably tell him you're okay."  
  
"I should probably bring him the takeout he asked for, when he heard I was driving up here." Reid checked that he was still as dressed as he remembered being, getting into bed, before he got out of it, heading to the bathroom. "I'll probably wait to tell him until I can make a peace offering."  
  
Pulling the door closed behind him, he texted Chaz. Within two minutes, he got a call back.  
  
"I need you to tell me what just happened," Reid said, as calmly as he could manage. "I need you to tell me if that was me or you."  
  
"I... don't know what just happened, but after the first trip to Nebraska, we both know that doesn't mean anything, and right now, I am not in a good place to have this conversation or the other one I need to have with you." Chaz paused, and the weight of the silence held it open. "Right now, if you can tell me absolutely everything you remember Reston saying, I'll be better for it. You weren't ... that wasn't the clearest thing about what was going on at the time. Tomorrow night, we'll go dancing."  
  
"I don't think that's a good idea. I'm not even supposed to be standing up without help for another six hours or so, and however much better I may be by tomorrow, I don't think that's going to be improved by--"  
  
"I need to talk to you, and no one's going to hear us, there."  
  
"I don't have anything to wear."  
  
"Let me worry about that. You wear pretty close to my size." Another drawn-out pause. "We're still with the witness. I need you to help me sort out some of the words Reston used, because I have a very different perspective on what I think you heard."


	14. Chapter 14

The full effect of the night before didn't set in until Reid was back with the rest of his team, the next morning. For once, he'd slept more than anyone. And they all knew he'd lost more than blood.  
  
"Reston's got your gun," Rossi reminded him, seeing that look on his face again. "And when we find him, we'll find it. I'm willing to bet we'll find it unused, because that's not his style. He took it because he couldn't leave you armed."  
  
"No, that's not his style, but we -- I -- may have pushed him past that point. He's _fleeing_ , now." Reid leaned forward into his hands, elbows on the table. "He's more likely to do things now that he wouldn't have done when he still had a pattern, a cause to pursue."  
  
"He's not fleeing." Prentiss sat on the edge of the table. "He thinks you and Merlo are dead. And we're letting him think that. The rumour going around, right now, is that two _bodies_ were found in that building, last night. If he's comfortable, he's more likely to come home. If both of you are dead, we have no witnesses."  
  
"You were still looking for him, last night. Whoever you woke up to ask about him is going to tell him." Reid sat back and crossed his arms. A split second later, he uncrossed them and rested the right one on the table. "He's fleeing. And we have no idea where he's going."  
  
"Villette's convinced he has a partner," Rossi offered, waiting to see what Reid would make of that.  
  
"He does," Reid agreed, "but not an equal partner. In his own words, someone else _gave_ him the drug, specifically so he could carry out his revenge with it. And they gave him enough of it to, as he put it, test it. So, there's no question in my mind that his intention was murder right from the start -- a series of murders intended to fine-tune something intended to kill 'the Blackbird'. To Reston, as far as I can tell, this Blackbird is some kind of demon of the opium trade. The idea seems to be that the Blackbird lures in the unsuspecting with promises of a lifetime of opiates in exchange for the kind of prices only seen in fairytales -- a lifetime of service, a firstborn child, a spouse."  
  
JJ put a cap on the marker she'd been using. "I was really starting to wonder, when you got to that part, last night."  
  
"I know. You suggested, not for the first time, that I should stop trying to give a statement and go to sleep." Reid looked unamused. "But, I'm serious. According to Villette, who spent most of last night interviewing Merlo, the man's only sixty-seven years old. Reston's about a decade younger. Whatever happened to Reston's _grandfather_ \-- Garcia says he died of late complications from a wound sustained during the Great War, after a lifetime of heavy morphine use -- Merlo _couldn't_ have been involved."  
  
"I have Villette's report." Rossi tapped a pile of papers and pushed it down to Reid. "Merlo claims not to know Reston, but to recognise the drug Reston's using as something that was tested and abandoned by an Italian chemical company. Due to the layers of politics and non-disclosure agreements, that's all he can tell us, but it's what brought him into the case -- he wanted to make sure of what he was seeing and then report it to the Italian government, and also to find the person using it and bring them to the attention of the police. But, his resources aren't ours, so he was a few steps behind us, in some ways, and ahead of us, in others."  
  
"Which is how he knew he was looking for Reston, when he found me." Reid nodded. "And that suggests that Reston's partner is an Italian chemist."  
  
"One with a vendetta against Merlo's family, if you believe the story." Rossi shook his head. "I can't tell if this guy's serious, or if he's trying and failing to come up with something believable, because he can't tell us what's actually happening."  
  
Reid paged through Chaz's report, pausing and staring into space, occasionally, as he put what he was reading together with what he already knew. "He's very clear about when he can't discuss things, so I think that on some level, he's telling the truth. He's telling the truth _as he understands it_ , which may not be objective fact. That said, it looks like Gates verified parts of the story, so he's definitely pointing his finger in the right direction. The Querinis have a record of extremely petty legal actions against the Merlos -- everything from hiring workers under the table to grazing sheep on the wrong side of a hill. It's unquestionably a seventy-year history of harassment, which is strange, because the two families haven't been in the same business at any point in the last century and a half, at least, and they don't live anywhere near one another."  
  
"He's got a theory about that, too." Rossi gestured to the pages.  
  
"I see that. Supposedly, there were Merlos on the list of doctors during the Plague of Venice, and the story passed down the Merlo family is that the Querinis almost died out during the plague, and they blame the Merlos, in specific, for their losses." Reid tipped his head back, eyes closed. "And, yes, I've seen copies of the documents in question. I don't remember any Merlo, on the list, but there's an Artemis and an Aurelius _Merula_. And that's where we get the Blackbird. Merula becomes Merlo, in modern Italian. Which brings me to the idea that the original Blackbird was a plague doctor in Venice, six hundred and fifty years ago, and this story isn't Reston's at all; it belongs to the Querinis."  
  
"The Blackbird is probably Aurelius Merula," Prentiss agreed, nodding. "But, I think the story is Reston's. I think the story is Restons and his partner augmented it with the story of the Blackbird, until Reston believed the latest scion of the Merlo family was the same Blackbird as the one in the story, and the same doctor who prescribed for his grandfather."  
  
"Reston hasn't shown any signs of that sort of instability, before now," JJ argued, getting herself another cup of coffee.  
  
Prentiss's phone rang, before anyone could say another word. She glanced at it and hit the button to put it on speaker. "Tell us what you've got, Garcia."  
  
"I have journeyed through the depths of records yet undigitised, but phone time has paid off, and I can finally present you with most of the story of Reston's aunt, one Amira Westmorland, at the time of her death, born Amira Simons -- that's the grandfather's name. Born in nineteen thirty-four in Boston, very little is interesting about her until after she's married to Joshua Westmorland. A few months after the wedding, we start seeing police reports for their address, neighbours calling to complain about the noise, because they're always fighting and throwing things. Of course, it's nineteen fifty-seven, so no one actually suggests she should _leave_ her husband. No, why would anyone do that? That might be _sensible_." Garcia huffs with irritation, and then goes on. "But, in sixty-five, things suddenly get weird. It's recorded as a murder-suicide -- Amira killed Joshua, apparently by beating him to death with a hot iron. There was no trace the iron in their home had been used for that -- _and_ it was the wrong size for the wounds -- and the weapon was never found. Amira's death is ... I have serious questions about Amira's death. It's said that she resisted arrest and hit one of the officers hard enough to crack his skull, and that she must have swallowed an explosive, because she, well, _exploded_ , seriously injuring both officers at the scene. No trace of the explosive used was recovered from the scene, and there was no indication she'd have known how to make one. But, the case was closed as a murder-suicide with no further investigation, because it was judged obvious from the way Amira struck at the arresting officers that she was the one who'd killed her husband."  
  
"A _changeling_." A chill ran down Reid's spine. "He called her a changeling. Garcia? I need you to forward that information to Villette. I have a very bad feeling about that story."  
  
"As we speak!"  
  
"You think that's a WTF case?" Prentiss asked, cocking her head at the phone.  
  
"A woman beats her husband to death with an imaginary iron, breaks a policeman's skull with one swing, and then explodes? My instinctive reaction to that is a total of three letters long, and they're not 'BAU'." Reid looked expectantly at Prentiss.  
  
"Okay, that's fair. When you put it like that, I can definitely see that it might have been better handled by the ACTF, if such a thing had existed at the time. It is, if nothing else, anomalous." Prentiss tipped her head, resignation on her face. "Of course, I think if anyone had handled that case _at all_ , we might actually know what happened."  
  
"It's not important what happened," Reid pointed out. "Not really, even if I am curious to have an ACTF perspective on the events as recorded. What's important is what Reston thinks happened, and he's managed to conflate his aunt's death with a category of children's stories in which an abused child is replaced with an animated doll of some kind, and the doll continues to behave as the abuser directs, until the abuser strikes it, at which point, the secret hidden within the doll is revealed, and it kills or maims the abuser. One German story that stands out, here, has a doll with two snakes inside, and when the doll is broken, the snakes bite the father. But, it's not a father, this time, and the story almost always has a parent as the abuser. Reston's story casts the husband as the abuser, which says that on some level, he understands what was happening in that house, but feels that his aunt deserved it, because she wasn't a real person, as demonstrated by the manner of her death. And he blames the Blackbird for changing her. In fact, he claims his grandfather traded his aunt to the Blackbird for morphine and received the 'changeling child' so no one would ask questions about the missing girl."  
  
JJ nodded contemplatively. "And he grew up and no doubt traded something valuable to him -- his service, maybe -- for a drug guaranteed to kill the apparently immortal being who screwed up his family."  
  
"Okay, except that's _nuts_." Garcia abandoned any pretence at tact. "There's no sign of any psychological disturbances in Reston's history, or really, in his family. There's the grandfather who got his foot blown off in the war and spent the rest of his life on morphine and antibiotics, which doesn't sound all that crazy to me, and there's the abused aunt who may or may not have killed her extremely physically abusive husband, which... may not have been the best answer, but I'm still not going to call it crazy. And there's nothing in Reston's immediate past that looks like a trigger. Nothing new about his family, nobody died, nobody was born, they're not reopening the case, no recent articles in publications we know he reads about the opioid epidemic... I'm fishing through his mail, and there's not even anything weird in here. It's _more_ weird that nobody sends him cards. There's no creepy emails -- well, nothing creepier than Viagra spam. There's ... nothing here. Relatively normal, functional businesspeople don't just suddenly lose their minds for no reason. He doesn't even have cancer!"  
  
"I lean toward the partner as the trigger," Reid said, after a moment's silence. "I don't think he's met someone new. I think it's someone he's known for a long time, someone he's shared family legends with, bonding over the apparently ridiculous stories that might have had some element of truth to them. And I think it's the revelation of some piece of that truth, combined with the offer of revenge that gave him the will to pursue it."  
  
"But, there's no new information, and there's no sign anyone's _sent_ anything to him," Garcia argued.  
  
"It wasn't sent. It was delivered in person." Reid pressed his forearm against the table, for the relief the even pressure along the wound provided. "And in order to receive something from someone, there has to be a meeting. If they didn't come to his house, he'd have gone out. If he went out, there's probably a telephone call that we don't have the contents of, but ... do you have his calendar? Do you see anything that looks like he went out to dinner or for drinks with someone?"  
  
"He wouldn't have written it down," Prentiss argued, leaning back to stare at the ceiling. "Check anyway, just in case, but I kind of doubt it."  
  
"Credit card," Rossi said. "Check for charges at restaurants and bars about three to four weeks ago. More than twenty days before Cherise Forton, but probably not too much more."  
  
"That assumes he paid, but it's a good place to start," JJ agreed, considering what they'd learned so far. She held up her finger as Montoya came in, so she could finish the thought. "I think 'partner' may be the wrong word, here. 'Patron' might be more like it, assuming we've put this together the right way. This may not be the mutually beneficial partnership wer'e assuming Reston believes it to be. Reston was given -- no, _granted_ \-- the drug by someone he never names, with the specific purpose of killing someone, or to his mind some _thing_ , that he and the person behind the drug both have a reason to hate. He's being set up to do the work and then take the fall, because I don't think he _can_ name the partner."  
  
Montoya held up a message slip. "He can't. Reston's dead."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shout out to all of you who have stumbled into this series because you're quarantined and bored out of your minds.


	15. Chapter 15

"I'm sorry, he's _what_?" Reid blinked up at Montoya. "Are you absolutely sure it's Reston?"  
  
"Dead. And we're pretty sure it's him, but I've got to go down and take a look, since we just saw him, the other day." Montoya sighed and pulled out his phone, checking something. "Which means I have to ask where you were for the last... call it five hours."  
  
"Sleeping. And then here." Dread filled Reid's eyes. "He was shot with my gun, wasn't he."  
  
"No, he died of a massive _opioid_ overdose, at a glance. First on the scene figured it was either suicide or stupidity." Montoya turned the phone and held it out to Reid. "But, by chance, _is_ that your gun?"  
  
Reid squinted at the photograph, leaning in closer to the screen. "I couldn't tell you, at that size," he said, rather than admit he had no idea where he'd lost his glasses, this time. "There's not enough detail."  
  
"Similar, though." JJ rescued him, leaning over his shoulder to see. "Given the lack of guns in this case, it probably is, but he's right. It's hard to tell for sure."  
  
"It was found next to his hand. I haven't heard whether it was used, and I'm a little worried we're going to find another victim somewhere, but shot." Montoya looked around. "Where's Villette?"  
  
"Keeping the witness company, still." Reid absently tucked his arm tight against himself under the edge of the table. "Or, I should say, protecting the intended victim, as far as we know."  
  
"And now the killer is dead," Rossi observed, pausing to let that settle. "And the death is arranged to look like it was either a suicide or revenge at the hands of someone Reston has assured us is at least trafficking in opioids. I do not believe this was a suicide. Of all the ways Reston could have killed himself, he would not have seen the appeal of following his grandfather into the Blackbird's clutches."  
  
"I have to agree." Reid nodded. "Which leaves us with murder. And if Aurelio Merlo is accounted for, then the most likely murderer is the partner... And we still don't know who that person is, even if Merlo is correct in his suspicions of the Querinis. I will say that regardless of whether the Querinis are to blame, they're almost certainly _involved_ , if that drug came from their labs, at least as other wronged parties."  
  
"Without Reston alive, we've just hit the part where this gets nasty." Montoya finally pulled out a chair and sat. "We only have the victim's suspicions that there's another party involved. It makes _sense_ , especially since Reston's obviously been murdered, but the only suspect we have is probably back in Italy, by now, and we don't know anything about the guy. Or if it's a guy. I might not be surprised by a woman, here -- poison and staged overdoses are... I won't say 'more often' women, but they're more often a first choice for women than for men, and this is absolutely premeditated. The whole thing, from the first death to Reston's. But, we can't go to Interpol with it; what are we going to say, 'Oh, we've got a person wanted for murder, and we think they might be Italian. No, we can't tell you anything else about them.'"  
  
"Venice," Reid corrected, rocking back and forth in his chair as he considered what they could use. "We don't just think they're from Italy, we think they're from somewhere near Venice. And we know they had access to a drug developed by Querini Farmaceutici, which implies a connection with the company -- in fact, with a very specific set of departments within the company. At the very least, the Italian government is going to take an interest in how a drug prototype scheduled for destruction wound up leaving the country in sufficient quantity to be used in twenty, almost twenty-one, murders. And more than that, Reston claimed he'd meant to continue testing, which means there's still more of it out there, somewhere, either hidden by Reston or reclaimed by the partner, who is very soon going to realise that Merlo isn't dead."  
  
"Does anyone know what the proper channel to go through for something like this is?" Montoya looked up and down the table. "Usually, for something that's international, we'll bring in the DEA, but I'm not sure that's the best idea on this one. It's an amphetamine, and it's illegal in this country, and that would usually be enough, but we're looking at something legitimately manufactured for ... if I were going to guess, wartime use, and if we go through the DEA, we're going to step on a lot of toes."  
  
Prentiss nodded. "I agree. I think the best answer may be to find out who Merlo knows over there, verify they're legitimate, and go in that way. It's likely they'll be in a better position to bring this to the attention of the correct authorities, in Italy, and they may already have people they'd suspect of something like this, assuming the partner is a current or former employee."  
  
"I'll call Villette," Reid offered. "How do we want to do this? Like I said, someone's going to realise Merlo's not dead, so it might be best if we don't move him around too much."

* * *

The club was the same one as last time, but this time Tory didn't catch them coming through the door. He'd stayed back with Hafidha and Prentiss, keeping an eye on Merlo. Reid, Chaz, and Mary sat at the same table in the back, Reid finally cradling the glass of gin he'd wanted for the last twenty-something hours. He felt ridiculous. He'd let Chaz dress him in what could be grabbed from a thrift store -- laundered first, at his own insistence -- and he'd wound up in ridiculous trousers with purposeless straps and a t-shirt for a band he'd never heard of over his own thermal shirt. The outfit was topped off with an army-issue single-breasted trench coat that he suspected, looking at the label, had once been olive, but was now some faded greenish charcoal colour.  
  
A young black man had made a gesture of greeting, as they'd crossed the dance floor, and Reid was afraid Chaz would stop and talk, but he just returned the greeting, wordlessly, and they went on. The purple and white eyeshadow lingered in Reid's mind, for a bit -- a startling combination, but high contrast, and it lent an almost majestic air to the young man's face. It was nearly a mask, compared to Chaz's thin, black eyeliner.  
  
He looked away from the dance floor as he realised Mary was trying to get his attention. This time, he sat in the middle, Chaz to one side and Mary to the other. "What?"  
  
"I said, what's this about you refusing to let the paramedics get a look at you? I heard you got stabbed!"  
  
Reid held up a finger, then pulled up the sleeve with the bandage under it. "It's honestly not that bad, but..." He pulled up the other sleeve, reintroducing the damage Mary, herself, had done to his arm. "I like my job. I just didn't feel like spending all night explaining, denying, and justifying."  
  
He pulled both sleeves back down. "Besides, Merlo's a combat medic, and he did exceptional work on the stitches. Trust me; I'd know. I just didn't want to be poked and prodded any more. It was already taken care of. I wanted a hot bath and a drink, and I have finally gotten that drink."  
  
"I thought you weren't drinking any more," Chaz reminded him.  
  
"That was before I got the entire length of my forearm sliced open. Perspective is a wonderful thing. Besides, I'm here with the two of you, and at least one of us will realise something's wrong, if anything happens." Sipping the gin and tonic, Reid looked contemplative. "What was it you dragged me out to a club to tell me?"  
  
"It was me, not you. And I'm sorry." Chaz swallowed and tipped his head back, staring at the patterns in the reflected light on the wall above him. Finally, he looked back at Reid, because if he didn't, he'd probably have to say it all again. "Reston said his aunt was a changeling. Let's start with that."  
  
"Anomalous." Reid nodded. "I figured that out from the report."  
  
"A specific kind of anomalous, apparently, and I didn't realise there was a distinction there. The changelings are ... almost everyone we call anomalous in the US -- people who have changed. Which is to say, _not me_. Or, not me, _as far as I know_."  
  
"But, you remember--"  
  
"Yeah, but there's... Time doesn't exist in the same way. The _brain_ doesn't exist in the same way. I have an awareness I'm not supposed to have had, and I'm still not sure why, because Aurelio says that's not -- No. We'll get to that. But, suffice to say, I'm not sure when my mother... split with my father. How many times... Whether I took it from her, or he gave it to me, and that apparently makes a difference." Chaz took a swig from the bottle of water he'd gotten himself. "Do you know what's worse than dreams about dying?"  
  
Reid remembered, and his face went still. "Dreams about being the last one left alive. That's what you meant."  
  
"I'm so sorry. He scared the shit out of me, and I just didn't have time to deal with it, and ..." Chaz made a face like a stepped-on frog. "I forgot we could do that, that I could do that, until you said it."  
  
Reid studied Chaz's face in confusion, trying to get a grip on the swirl of panic and memory. "He said you'd lose your team again? On this case?"  
  
"He told me the anomaly wasn't going to kill me. He told me he's supposedly sixty-seven years old, but he has no idea how old he is." Chaz folded his hands around the water bottle, fingers pressed against the opposite knuckles, not to crush it. "He told me that it only kills the changelings -- that it drives them mad, makes them violent, and burns them up from the inside. Sounds familiar, right?"  
  
"He told you I wasn't going to be the last one left, like we thought; that it's going to be _you_."  
  
"He told me I was going to live a very long time."  
  
"On a completely selfish level, I'll be happy if it's true," Reid admitted, before Chaz could stumble onto that. "On a more practical level, I'm incredibly sorry there's a chance you'll go through that again. Once was one time too many, for both of us."  
  
"You and Frank should take a week in Bermuda. It's not going to help, but at least you'll have it." Chaz offered a shaky smile, there and gone in a flash. "Just the two of you."  
  
"I don't think taking him anywhere that sunny is a good idea," Reid joked, because the alternative was to cry. "He almost burned walking up to West's last year."  
  
Chaz snorted and covered his mouth. "You didn't call him, yet, did you?"  
  
"Absolutely not. When I get home, I will be happy to demonstrate there is nothing wrong with me, as long as he doesn't lean on that arm." Reid sipped his gin again, looking out across the dance floor. "I can't let him worry. It's not fair."  
  
Mary laughed and put a hand on Reid's shoulder. "Spencer, if he got stabbed in the arm, would you expect to be called?"  
  
Reid twisted out from under her hand under the guise of turning to look at her. "If it was an accident with the wire saw or the riveter, maybe not. He's done that to himself before. I'm ... pretty sure he'd be fine without me. If someone else was involved and it was intentional, I sincerely hope I'd get a call. I am--"  
  
"Probably out of your jurisdiction." Chaz elbowed him, having picked up the end of that thought, loud and clear. "And you'd be taken off the case anyway. He's your boyfriend."  
  
"Then how is it we're both still working the Langly case?"  
  
"Because the last two people to touch it are retired, and we're the only ones who know what's going on."  
  
"Anyway, you got stabbed with malicious intent." Mary patted Reid's shoulder, but took her hand back, this time. "You should probably call and tell him you're alive, before Penny does it for you."  
  
" _No_ ," Reid insisted. "I'll be home in a few days. You know if I tell him, he's going to drive up here. On the motorcycle. Probably in the middle of the night. I am absolutely not going to tell him, until I get home."  
  
Chaz leaned out so Mary could see his face. "He's got a point. That is exactly what your cousin would do."  
  
Mary squinted at Chaz, dismay tugging at her lips. "Listen, are we sure nobody told him? Reston's suddenly dead, right?"  
  
Chaz actually stopped to consider it, but Reid merely rolled his eyes and shook his head.  
  
"There was no vomit at the crime scene. It's not Frank."  
  
Mary laughed sharply. "How the hell is he like this? The aversion to corpses absolutely does _not_ run in the family."  
  
"But, you know what might?" Chaz raised his eyebrows.  
  
"There's no way. You heard what Aurelio said -- the lineages produce similar, ah, talents. We've only got _two_ that are even in the same ballpark, Frank and Hugh Stewart." Mary shook her head. "Besides, they're all changelings. They have to be, because two of us haven't changed yet."  
  
"Granger may have damaged the very thing he wanted to keep. Remember, you're all _almost_ identical," Chaz pointed out. "And it's the 'almost' we're interested in. A lot of you were symptomatic early on; more than half of you were showing signs of it by puberty."  
  
"They're still changelings, Chaz," Mary insisted.  
  
"But, their children may not be. Not all of them are sterile, like Frank."


	16. Chapter 16

Even from home, Langly was still camped on his parents' old phone number. Anything calling in would be logged and given an empty line, an unresponsive gap in the network that led nowhere at all. But, anything sent into that gap, he'd know about. And he wouldn't miss Aunt Copper's message, when it finally came.  
  
But, Barrabus hit first, before anything else. At least, he was pretty sure it was Barrabus, because no one else knew to hit him at that number, except Auntie, and it sure as hell wasn't Auntie.  
  
> _No time. Run. Now._  
  
Langly wasted no time in calling what passed for Saltville's emergency services. "Hey, Wanda, it's Frank Arroway from up at the old Langly place. I'm out of town, but I just got a message that something set off the alarm. ... No, not unless it's a cow, and I just don't see a cow breaking into the house, or even the barn. We think it might be related to the, ah... _plants_ , you know, that were found in the barn. Might want to go check that out. ... Thanks."  
  
Two and a half minutes later, the alarms actually started going off. First the driveway triggered, and caught the shape of a vehicle that was painted not to be clearly photographed. Then the porch-light camera started clicking. He hoped he'd been right about it reading as a light sensor to automatically turn the porch light on. Which, to be fair, it _did_. The light came on, and the figure at the door didn't even flinch. Didn't look up, either. Not a damn thing on the camera but a rough body shape and a whole lot of non-reflective cloth, in a dark blue.  
  
Not a word spoken between the figure at the door and anyone else they might've been travelling with, but suddenly the official alarm system that went with the sticker in the window dropped, and the secondary system kicked in on that trigger. One alert sent into the black hole that was the house number, and the transmission died. Nothing in the house sent any signal. Nothing in the house was listening that shouldn't have been able to. But, the house was definitely watching. And it didn't need to send signal, because Langly was already in the wires.

* * *

Byers couldn't get Reid to answer the phone. Either he was out of signal range, or he'd run out of batteries. And that was not useful, right now. It was never useful, really, but it was especially not useful right that minute. Fine. The hard way, then. He had no way to safely reach Agents Gates or Villette, but he could probably get Penny, even at this hour.  
  
> _Your Majesty? We've got trouble. I need you to call the nearest field office to Saltville, NE and tell them the ACTF's bait just caught something, and the locals need backup immediately._  
  
< _Figuring out who to call right now. Fill me in while I take care of it._  
  
> _Nobody's there, but it's Agent Villette's case. The old Langly place is wired. We've been expecting someone to break in, and it's happening now. Saltville has one sheriff, two deputies, and half a dozen fire fighters, and that's it. We're looking at a very small, very well-trained team of assassins. And we are looking at them. We have video._  
  
< _Not that well trained then._  
  
> _No, they are. We're just better._  
  
< _There's nobody closer than 40 minutes, but we've got people on the way. The big question is why nobody was waiting for this from, well, closer._  
  
> _Because the only reason this would be happening is to cover up a conspiracy that's already claimed a lot of lives in ... 'accidents'. Getting as far as possible seemed like the best thing for all of us who'd been seen there. We knew that's where they'd go first._  
  
< _Yeah, but you could've left word with the field office before you left._  
  
> _No, we couldn't. Because then someone would have put it into a computer. Nobody knows, unless they saw us driving past in the middle of the night or they're our pilot. There's no trace of us leaving. That's why they're in the house. On paper, we're all still there._  
  
< _Then why the hell is Reid back at work!?_  
  
> _I refer you back to any number of your own observations on Dr Reid._  
  
"Suck it!" Langly hissed, twisting his chair so he could cross his ankles on the corner of the desk, pulling the keyboard he wasn't actually using into his lap.  
  
"Good or bad?" Byers asked, not looking up from the laptop he was using.  
  
"No, no, no, no, not the _floor_!" Langly howled, suddenly sitting back up, feet twisting around the base of the chair. A few moments of panicked staring into space, eves flicking across nothing, and then: "Eat my entire ass! That house is mine! I am that house!"  
  
"What?" Byers finally turned around, blinking, but Langly was paying exactly no attention to him.  
  
"I liked that lamp," Langly shouted, "but, fuck you!"  
  
> _We're going to need an ambulance and the coroner, I think. I'm pretty sure somebody just shocked themselves very badly on one of the lamps._  
  
< _What is it with Frank and electrical accidents?_  
  
> _Frank's sitting right next to me, watching the feed from the house. I'm not sure you can really make the case for this being his doing. We were in the middle of renovations, when we left -- the plumbing's fixed, but the electrical still has some unexpected issues. The house is more than a hundred years old, and I get the feeling a lot of the conversions were DIY. That house nearly made a plumber cry._  
  
"Oh, the hell you are," Langly snapped, one hand jerking in a dismissive swipe. "You think I can't do that twice? Step into my parlour, said the hacker to the fly."  
  
"I promise that makes less sense than you think it does," Byers sighed, but Langly had gotten lost in the depths of a conversation that had only one side, and the side that wasn't talking was apparently trying to damage the house they'd just bought.  
  
< _Still, if there are injuries, we're probably going to want to get an electrician in to dispel any rumours. This is the third time that an electrical accident of some kind has befallen people trying to harm Frank. Three times makes it a thing, especially since he actually had control this time._  
  
> _We need an electrician anyway. I'll pay for it._  
  
"The door-- the door-- the-- God _damn_ it!" Langly tossed the keyboard he still wasn't using back onto the desk. "You stay away from my mother's curtains!"  
  
> _Yeah, definitely an ambulance._

* * *

"I can't talk about that," Langly said for the eighth time to the agent on the other end of the phone. "I'm just a consultant. This is Villette's case. That was, however, _my house_."  
  
"Still is your house, Mr Arroway. The fire didn't do a hell of a lot of damage. It seems the local fire department was already in route when it started."  
  
"Because Wanda couldn't reach a deputy again. Right."  
  
"No, we have the entire Saltville Sheriff's Department right here. All three of them. And the Sheriff's not terribly happy with this situation."  
  
"Tell him I said it's not about the drugs, it's about Miss Helen," Langly said carefully. "The last owner of the house had some, ah... I can't talk about it. It's Villette's case. But, the little old lady's innocent. She just saw something she shouldn't have, and some very angry people are invested in making sure nobody else finds out."  
  
"The previous owner was a Ruth Langly?"  
  
"Helen Langly. I mean, yeah, Ruth, but Helen died and left the house to Joe and Ruth. Ruth sold the house to me -- well, to my company. But, Villette's trying to close a very old case, and Helen Langly's evidence would go a very long way towards that." Langly cleared his throat. "And whoever these people were, they believed Villette and I were still in the house."  
  
"Can't tell you who they are, yet, Mr Arroway. There's no one here."  
  
" _What_." Langly sat up, feet coming off the desk. "No, really, what the fuck? They were in the house right up until Sheriff Shithead came in the front door. How the hell far could they have gotten? They're driving a--"  
  
"No, they're not. The car's still parked in front of the house. That's how we know someone was here."  
  
"Christ! No, listen. You-- you're on a cel, right? Give me just a minute, and I'll send you stills from the security feed."  
  
"I'm very interested that you have a security feed. The equipment found in the car leads us to believe these were professionals -- a lot more firepower than you'd need to go after a farmhouse in rural Nebraska."  
  
"Yeah. They're good. I'm just better. That's why they pay me the big bucks." Langly picked out the frames that showed the most detail and none of his own stunts with the electricity. "There. That's what I've got. I lost them in the kitchen, after they set the curtains on fire. The flames crapped up the camera in there."  
  
"There are some severe scorch marks on the stairs, but it looks like they didn't actually make it all the way up, for some reason. The direct damage is confined to the first floor. I'd assume a distrust of the electrical system, to judge by the damage to the lights along the wall. From the look of things, in here, they tried to ... I'd guess shut down your security system and used more power than these old wires could handle. Several light fixtures appear to have exploded and there are scorch marks around some outlets. They did, however, _attempt_ to burn the entire house -- there's definitely an accelerant spread across places the flames from the kitchen never reached -- so either they were trying to destroy something in the house, whether that's you or Helen Langly's papers, or they're trying to intimidate your team."  
  
"Let them try that again. Next time nobody walks out the god damn back door, if I have to nail it shut, and how the _hell_ did you lose them? They were _right there_."  
  
"It's rural Nebraska, Mr Arroway. There are a lot of empty fields with no roads and no lights, and we don't know where they came from or what direction they left in. The ground's still frozen. There aren't any footprints to follow. In addition to which, if your team had left word with the local office, we could've had a more effective response prepared for this situation, but being telephoned in the middle of the night for a case we had no idea was even happening doesn't lead to the best response time or the best equipment being available."  
  
"Hey, I'm just a consultant. Don't look at me."  
  
"The ACTF is notorious for this sort of behaviour."  
  
Langly swore he could feel the frost settling on his ear, even without the phone anywhere near it.  
  
"And where _is_ Agent Villette, while all this is going on? En route, I hope?"  
  
Langly made a strangled noise. "As far as I know he's in the field on another case. We haven't been able to reach him or his partner, so you're stuck with two technical consultants and a technical analyst, and we're not cleared for travel, which is why we had to call the local office. Someone should've been available, but you know how some cases just... get out of hand..."  
  
"Well, when you find him, tell him Jake Deaver out of Lincoln is expecting to hear from him _immediately_."  
  
The call disconnected, and Langly turned his chair to look at Byers. "Where the hell is Reid?"  
  
"Baltimore. With Agent Villette and your cousin, at a glance. But, he's out of battery on the good phone. I didn't want to try to fake a line while you were trying to... with the assassins-- What made you think it was a good idea to go to Aunt Copper?" Byers's voice cracked on the last word, his eyes wide and round.  
  
"Oh, shit. Right. I was blocking you, wasn't I." Langly sighed, cracking his knuckles before he flicked his fingers again, knocking off a text to Chaz. "Aunt Copper's a last resort, and we're desperate."  
  
"Aunt Copper just told someone else you were looking for them before she told you who they were."  
  
"I don't think she had to, once I started pulling on that line. That number should've been reassigned, but it never was."


	17. Chapter 17

Langly's phone made a noise it wasn't supposed to, and he opened the message from Hafidha in the background while he ate breakfast -- or maybe this was dinner? Either way, Frohike must've scrambled a dozen eggs, and half of them were on Langly's plate.  
  
He closed his eyes trying to shut out the conversation at the table for a minute or two, while he worked out the implications of the message.  
  
> _Heard you were looking for Spencer's booty-call phone. You want me to try?_  
  
< _If I can't find it, neither can you. It's got no GPS._  
  
> _Chaz said something about it piggybacking on open wifi. You know that's my speciality, right? You're wired. I'm wireless._  
  
< _It reidentifies itself every time it switches networks or makes a call. I designed that thing to be invisible._  
  
> _You think I can't tell what it is, except by what it says it is? Please. We're both better than that. Same hardware as yours?_  
  
< _... Yeah_  
  
> _Give me a couple hours, and you owe me a fancy dinner with your cousin._  
  
< _I think that's_  
  
He felt something bounce off his forehead, and Byers's voice cut into the conversation he was having. "Langly!"  
  
"What?" He glared at Byers.  
  
"You're supposed to be eating, not messing with the network! Messing with the network is the opposite of eating."  
  
Langly rolled his eyes. "The opposite of eating is--"  
  
Frohike picked up the crumpled napkin Byers had tossed and bounced it off Langly's glasses. "Not at the breakfast table."

* * *

She couldn't figure out why the second phone hadn't been dumped with the first. The one they'd recovered was Reid's work phone, with the GPS still turned on, and she wondered if that had been an intentional decision, in case of exactly what happened, or if he really was just too technologically incompetent to have considered the fact that he'd been carrying a tracking beacon. It didn't matter, this time. Next time, it might.  
  
Next time. She'd already begun to think of Reid like his team did -- that it wouldn't be terribly surprising if this happened again, because even now, he still thought like an academic. That's what Chaz said it was, anyway -- the desire to have all the pieces in place before he laid out some entirely wild idea that, because he actually had figured it out, was both correct and completely dangerous. But, really, she'd done that a few times. It had just been a whole lot more personal, for her.  
  
She filtered through the devices around her, relying on what she knew about Langly's phone to filter out things that were obviously incorrect. Anything capable of an actual cellular connection was out, right off the top, which took out more than half the field. Anything that had GPS hardware was out, and the number dropped significantly again.  
  
But, why was _this_ phone missing? This one, in particular. It didn't advertise what it was -- it was just a nondescript flip phone that looked like it had been dropped down the stairs a few times. She'd seen the thing, even if she hadn't taken a closer look, at the time. Had someone else found it first? That someone was about to get the surprise of a lifetime.  
  
Or, had Reston taken it and used it to call his partner? Reid had been some half-assed kind of undercover, at the time, and a second phone would've fit right in with Detective James Spencer's persona. The work phone and the ancient piece of shit that one probably paid cash for calling cards to use. The anonymous, disposable phone one did _other_ business with. In which case, it would've been an excellent choice for the kind of call you wanted to hide. The victim wouldn't report the phone missing, because the phone wasn't supposed to exist, and the rest of the calls would be incriminating. Easier just to replace it.  
  
But, if that was the case, why hadn't it been found with Reston's body?  
  
It didn't matter. It wasn't actually her case. Not really. Not yet. Merlo was her problem, and he was across the room working on treaties in languages she didn't even recognise. He'd been great about keeping her fed, though, while she spread herself through the city's networks looking for the phone. She had to do something, or she was going to lose her mind, and this was a lot more interesting than most of the alternatives. This was something she hadn't tried to do, before -- locating a specific device that was probably on a random network somewhere in the city and was lying _differently_ about what it was every few minutes, if it was moving at all.  
  
But, she'd find it. Reston had probably dumped it, and unlike the other phone, this one wouldn't have had a lock on it, so someone probably picked it up and tried using it, and got lucky. Some poor kid was going to get the shit scared out of him, in a couple of hours.

* * *

Chaz woke up, confused and exhausted, to the sound of his phone chirping and twittering like the birds on the lawn he didn't have. Had to be Hafs. Langly was a completely different kind of dick. He grabbed the phone and made an incoherent noise into it.  
  
"Time to get up, Chazzie!" Hafidha sounded much too cheerful, for someone who'd been awake just as long as he had, if not longer. " _You're_ going to go rescue a piece of hardware!"  
  
" _No?_ " Chaz groaned and rubbed his face, looking at the clock. An hour and a half ago, he'd usurped Agent Jareau's bed, because she was still helping Prentiss with the Italian government, leaving him with Reid. At least Reid had thought to arrange that _before_ they'd gone out. Mary had taken the offer to catch a nap on the couch in Merlo's office and then check on Reston's autopsy, once it was actually morning. It worked out well, because Reid really needed an actual bed and some actual sleep. And, honestly, so did he. "Can't this wait until a reasonable hour? What are you even talking about, _hardware_?"  
  
"Remember how Spencer's other phone was missing? Yeah. I just found it."  
  
Chaz sat up, as that sunk in. "It doesn't have GPS."  
  
"No, but it's on an open network in range of two very limited-area wireless networks that it can't connect to, and I know where those are and where it has to be to be picking up both of them at those strengths. And I don't like it. I think Reston's killer has the phone, and I can't figure out why."  
  
On the other side of the room, Reid rolled over and made an inquisitive noise, and Chaz finally dragged himself out of bed to finish this conversation in the bathroom. As the door clicked shut behind him, Chaz said what he knew Hafidha was already thinking. "That doesn't make any sense."  
  
"It makes more sense than anything else I could come up with. Like I said, I tracked it back to a pretty specific location, and that's not going to be some rando who found a phone in the trash. Not on the upper floors of a secured building, the penthouse of which is owned by a Dominican shell corporation that I can trace ... part of the way back.. I'm pretty sure the corporation is Italian-owned, on the way far end, but I haven't gotten all the way there, yet. There's about seven layers of bullshit, in here, and weird-ass international corporate structure is not really my thing."  
  
"You have Tory with you, right?"  
  
"Yeah, he's out flirting with the secretary, I think. She's funny. I like her."  
  
"Good. I'm probably going to need him, before this is over. It's his case. But, I'll go take a look. Text me the address." And everything else about the building, but he didn't have to say that.  
  
"Take Spencer with you. Don't do this alone."  
  
"He's unarmed, in more ways than one, right now."  
  
"So give him your gun. You don't need it."  
  
"You mean the one I left in the safe at home, because I didn't need it? That gun?"  
  
"... Fuck." Hafidha paused. "He has to go with you. Someone has to go with you, and you don't want to take someone who doesn't know you into this. You need someone who knows when to duck. And I'm... There's only two of us. One of us has to stay with the rest of the anomalous contingent, here."  
  
"Which is a great reason to wait another couple of hours, and I'll call Nikki."  
  
"We don't have a couple of hours. We may not have _an_ hour." Hafidha muttered something under her breath about bluetooth drivers and Chaz could swear that was the sound of her kicking something. "How well do you speak Italian?"

* * *

Chaz came out of the bathroom wide awake and half-dressed, flicking more lights on as he dragged his pants on and found his shoes. "You need to get up, Spencer. We're gonna go get your phone, and if Hafs is right, we're also going to get the guy who killed Reston."  
  
Reid groaned loudly, in irritation. "Blood loss and gin," he protested, "is not what you want for backup."  
  
"I _need_ another ACTF agent. I'd _like_ Hafs. But, all I've got is you, and we have to go in light, because we're almost sure that's another ... ah ... like Merlo. And I _still_ don't know what the hell he does." Chaz tossed Reid the cleanest clothes he could find.  
  
"Anomalous." Reid looked like he'd gotten in a fight and lost, which, to be entirely fair, he had. A green-gold bruise sat low on his forehead and high on his cheek, and both arms were wrapped, so he'd stop scratching the scabs in his sleep.  
  
"More than that. _Born and raised_ anomalous, from anomalous parents, in a chain going back for centuries. These aren't people who spontaneously manifested powers under stress. These are people who were raised with expectations." Chaz rescued the car keys from Reid's jacket, while Reid blearily got dressed. "The difference between Hafs and Frank? It's like that, only moreso. Both of them are still first generation. Both of them are still what Merlo calls changelings. But, Frank skipped the coming to terms with it part -- most people don't change easy, and the time it takes to figure out what's going on does an incredible amount of damage. Even I went through it, and I was born anomalous. I was in my _twenties_ before I knew what was going on. But, Frank? We caught him right when he tipped over and told him what was going on, same day. He came into it faster, because he wasn't fighting with himself about it. Now, project that a few generations. It's not just your friends know what's wrong with you, your whole family is like that, and they've always been like that. They've probably based a family business on it. You don't talk about it outside the family, but the 'family' is huge. The family is most of a small village. These aren't people who are uncomfortable with what they are. These aren't people who are uncertain about what they can do. These are people with an entire antique belief system that either keeps the Anomaly at bay or prevents it from doing damage inside the family, and I think the feuds are part of that."  
  
"A supposedly appropriate target for the aggressions a certain percentage of every generation isn't going to be able to suppress." Reid tried to get his hair to look like he hadn't drooled in it, in his sleep, but the ends were still weirdly crunchy.  
  
"Brush it in the car," Chaz said, tossing him his jacket. "I'm driving. I know where we're going."

* * *

"On a boat?" Reid looked slightly more awake, with a cup of coffee in his hands and his hair brushed. "That's ingenious, really. We're watching passenger travel, not shipping. But, it makes a certain amount of sense -- come in under everyone's notice, and then act like you belong. Some of the greatest burglaries and assassinations in history were managed like that."  
  
"Except this guy's not posing as a janitor. He's the... it translates roughly as the Head of Purchasing for a company out of the Dominican Republic. Except that's not quite a company, despite doing a certain amount of apparently-legitimate business, including buying a lot of large orders through Reston." Chaz took a corner like he was driving his own car, and the weight difference threw him off for a split second. "The point is, we're walking into an extremely secure building, and we're supposed to walk out of it with this guy in handcuffs, and exactly no one is going to make that easy. The man's got money and underlings to throw around."  
  
"That's not encouraging. What are you not telling me?"  
  
"We're going to do this the slightly crazy but probably effective way. You're bait. I'm invisible."  
  
"Didn't you tell me you couldn't get into Merlo's mind? What makes you think you're not going to be spotted, here?"  
  
"Because I don't have to get into anyone's mind to do that. It's a trick of the light, which is why it gives you a headache. I think it'd probably give anyone a headache if they were looking at me too long, but _your_ brain is trying to cope with the fact that it knows you _should_ be able to see me, but your eyes keep insisting there's nothing there. So, your eyes start picking out the edges and the little glitches that nobody else is going to notice, and your brain fills in the rest from _me_."  
  
"So, you don't have to have access to someone else's mind to make them not see you, but I need to have access to your mind to see you while you're doing it." Reid nodded contemplatively, brows drawing together. "It's a good theory, but we should probably test that, later. What are we doing now?"  
  
"You're going to go in and announce that you're Mr Fonda's driver. And either you're going to be sent up, or someone's going to call him down. Either way, with any luck, this puts both of us in a room with him, and he's only aware of you. We arrest him, and then we call Montoya to search the apartment."  
  
"Do we even have a warrant at this hour? _Can_ we arrest him?" Reid eyed Chaz with curiosity and concern. Of the two of them, he'd had a lot more sleep in the last two days than Chaz had.  
  
"Hafs is taking care of that. What we do have is a record of Fonda using _your phone_ to arrange for a service he doesn't usually use to pick him up and take him to the port."  
  
Reid blinked. "My phone is in my pocket."  
  
"The one Langly gave you has been missing since you were found." Chaz finally settled for parking two blocks away.  
  
"He's using _what_?" Reid dug through his pockets looking for the phone in question, even though he knew it had been missing this whole time. It was the other reason he'd put off calling Langly. He _couldn't_. And he hadn't really wanted to draw attention to the fact that he had a totally other phone with which to make that call, despite the fact that his team already knew that, after Narcisse. He'd counted on Langly remotely destroying it, like he'd done last time, and building another one. Which was incredibly rude of him, and he knew it, given the time and money that went into the thing, but it wasn't particularly like he could help the circumstances that led to it.  
  
"I'm guessing-- Well, _Hafs_ is guessing that the phone was mistaken for a cheap pay-as-you-go phone, and the idea is that Reston called Fonda with it, and then Fonda called his car service with it, and the phone's going to end up thrown into the sea, if we don't get it back now. Ultimately, untraceable, unless you report it missing and suggest checking that number, which no one thinks you will, because in theory, you've been using it to call your dealer, and that's going to show up." Chaz smiled impolitely and leaned across Reid to unlock the door. "Someone has made a terrible mistake."  
  
"Langly's not going to be happy that it's possible to trace his phone. He designed it so that wouldn't be possible."  
  
"It's not possible. It's Hafidha."


	18. Chapter 18

"You're still alive!" The voice on the phone sounded surprised, and Langly pulled on his headset and pushed a button before he replied.  
  
"No thanks to you."  
  
"I found out very late, and when I tried to warn you, the line was busy. Check your email."  
  
And there it was -- Aunt Copper had done exactly as promised. "What did you _not_ get?"  
  
"I'm not so sure I followed this all the way back to the beginning. Or, I got the beginning, but parts of the middle are missing. Even for me, this is a little strange. It goes back a hundred years. There are places the story gets very strange, legendary even, and I've had to make some guesses with regard to certain people referenced in the stories. There's very little physical documentation surrounding the clinic, the doctor, and the programme behind it all, so a great deal of what you have is transcriptions and third-hand recollections. I've provided copies of what documents we were able to locate." Aunt Copper paused. "Certain people are also extremely interested in how you survived the evening's events. There are many rumours of a well-laid lure and a high-voltage trap."  
  
"Certain _other_ people are extremely interested in who the hell just came after the house," Langly shot back.  
  
"Kim of Bedlam, same as last time. Not him, but those were his people you just burned, and I'm pretty sure I mean that literally."  
  
"The sheriff tells me they were trying to burn the house down," Langly fudged the details just a little, to avoid mentioning the FBI, "so I'm pretty sure they had that coming. Literally. At least one of the Langlys is rumoured to have been smarter than your average hick, and this is probably his legacy."  
  
"You expect me to believe _Kim's_ team missed this the first time?"  
  
"Would Kim's team have been looking for it? I don't think so. They were after the loop that ran from the gate to the door. Anything inside the house should have belonged there, and wouldn't have been their problem. The only thing _we_ put in was a regular residential security system. But, I think you already know that."  
  
"I know many things, Miss Crispin. But, I still don't know how it is you came by this number."  
  
And there it was, the warning that Langly had been traced as far back as Spastic Fantastic's paper identity, and that information was now just as saleable as anything else Auntie knew. Of course, that was a dead end, and Auntie probably already knew it. "And that wasn't part of the deal. A lady's gotta have _some_ secrets."  
  
"If what I have given you brings up any further questions, you know how to contact me and what those questions will cost you. Maybe next time it will be part of the deal."  
  
Langly hung up and absently cleared the line, already going through the files, adding to the data already in place, linking things that seemed to have no relation, before. And then he hit the records for the clinic's funding. He'd run into a wall, there -- something about anonymous donors, which had been much easier to maintain in the sixties. But, here was the documentation, from the other side -- the correspondence setting up the funding and the research it was intended to cover. And if you didn't know about the Anomaly, it all sounded a little nuts. It still sounded a little nuts.  
  
The American Society for the Betterment of Mankind had been established in nineteen nineteen, by a small group of wealthy young men who'd all served in the First World War. The principles of the organisation mentioned several times the 'uncanny strength' and 'inhuman prowess' of some of the men they'd met in the trenches, and established their desire to find the cause that separated those best of men from all others and to reproduce that excellence across all mankind. And Langly had some thoughts about what they meant by 'all mankind', given the time and place and the people involved. But, the first fifteen years or so were apparently spent tracking down the soldiers they remembered -- those who'd survived, anyway -- and others who were remembered by those they'd fought with as being 'legendary' in some way. And studies were done, and testing, and breeding programmes discussed, but very little actually happened, before the Second World War broke out.  
  
That was when the Society fell silent, for a time, its public publications and proclamations brought to a halt, lest they be thought to be bringing German ideas into the country. But, somewhere during the war, the Russian cloning experiments started, Langly knew. And the few pieces of correspondence he had after nineteen forty-two, scanned from collections of some of the founders' papers donated posthumously to some university, seemed to suggest they'd considered the 'Russian system', as they called it in the letters, a path worth pursuing, and potentially far more rewarding than reckless attempts to produce empowered children in the more traditional way. But, they needed sources and scientists, and they needed a way to ensure their experiments survived.  
  
In the mid-sixties, the Society funded The Family Way, one of the earliest clinics of its kind. No one would know what to expect, aside from what the clinic promised -- a way to enable women who wanted children to have those children. And if the children were a little strange, well, it could be blamed on the difficulties the parents were already having. Which was exactly what they'd seen in the interviews, so far. Dr Granger was selected for the project as a brilliant, young researcher with the sort of face people liked, though most of his previous work had been in veterinary medicine. And he would work alongside two junior research assistants hired away from one of the Russian projects, Drs Orlov and Pasternak, rebranded for the American midwest as Adler and Pastore. And all that remained was to find the person or people the samples that started the project came from.  
  
And that's where they hit dead air. Almost everything about the clinic, aside from those early letters, basic business expenses, and the names of some patients, was just gone. Now, he was down to the rumours and stories. And the thing everyone was sure of was that the clinic mess had been cleaned up by Kim of Bedlam's team, but before he'd been in charge of it. There were whispers it was one of his early jobs, and the Society had kept the team on contract fr cleaning up after their accidents, as so many rich and powerful organisations did. Rumours also suggested that the Society had found Kim worthy, and stored his DNA for later experiments. But, where? And who were the earlier experiments based on? That shouldn't have been the soldiers from the early days of the Society -- by the time anyone understood how to collect and ship a proper sample, the subjects wouldn't have been able to provide anything viable, not at that point. The damage from ageing would've been too dangerous for something like this. And if they were anomalous in the teens, they'd have been dead by the sixties, anyway.  
  
Rumour held that Adler and Pastore each imparted a look to the children they helped produce, but as with Granger, the children didn't look like any of the doctors at the clinic, so no one thought anything of it. Their children, though, were said to have been less successful than Granger's -- more deaths, more bizarre mutations. Granger's rate of success was incredible, compared to that of his partners. There was one letter from Granger to the Society that was preserved, written in seventy-three, demanding that they stop treating his partners as lesser, because Adler and Pastore were foreign, and insisting that they be given working materials of the same quality he received. The answer was not recorded.  
  
But, this was why he'd needed Auntie's help. Auntie had a network that could reach things that hadn't been digitized. If it was even on paper anywhere, she could get it. Of course, that meant it was incredibly difficult to escape her notice, once you'd been spotted, and he'd just brought that eye down on all of them. Sort of. Almost. He wondered how long Spastic Fantastic would protect him from the woman who knew who he was from the minute he called her number. But, if he kept running circles around Kim of Bedlam, that alone might keep him safe from anyone else. A reputation for being more dangerous than the master could be a bonus. Pissing off the Mad Finn to get that reputation, on the other hand? Probably not such a great idea. But, since he was going to do that anyway...  
  
But, the letter from Granger had some interesting information in it. The initial subjects weren't named, but they were identified -- the line with the largest number of successes had been FSW002, and the ones he'd been writing to complain about were FFR009 and MBE017. Adler and Pastore had also been given samples from MMR002, FIT003, MIT003, and FIR019, and had been unable to get good results from any of them. The numbers suggested that the letters defined groups, and the numbers referred to the position within the group, probably the order in which either the samples were taken or the subjects were acquired. And that suggested a fairly substantial pool of subjects, if each code referred to a subject and not a sample from a subject. Nineteen subjects in FIR, seventeen in MBE, and those were minimum numbers, too. Those were just the subjects or samples that didn't work out, in this batch, and there could have been larger numbers that just didn't appear _here_. Assuming all those subjects were anomalous, these were not the numbers Chaz expected.  
  
FSW002 was very likely his ... parent? Progenitor? Source? And Langly found himself more than a little bit offended by that. Whoever that had been, they had a name. They may have even had real kids, proper kids, not just weirdo mutant clones like him and the other sixteen of him.  
  
But, as important as that was to him, that wasn't important to what they were trying to figure out, which was what and who the Society had become, and which parties to this genetic disaster were responsible for setting assassins on him. Of course, he didn't think they knew he'd returned from the dead, or they'd have come prepared to steal him, not to kill him. Or... he assumed from the old spy gear they'd meant to find him and learn if he'd been a success. Which, to be fair, he hadn't been. Fifty before he turned? No, they were trying to find more like Lakeland or Davis, the ones who turned young. But, showing up now would raise some interest. Of course, there were five other men who could pass for him with a minimum of effort and those were just the ones he knew. He wasn't sure he'd ever get over seeing his own face on someone else. Several someone elses, even. It was different when it was just Mary. She was supposed to look like him... sort of. They were cousins. It would never have been strange, except the part where it just called out how little they looked like anyone else in the family.  
  
For what little good it did, he found the scans of the phone records he hadn't been able to get. Still, he could trace those names and compare them with names associated with the Society. Not that he expected it would be that easy, but it needed to be done.  
  
Names. He finally had names, even if they were all the names of contractors and dead men. He knew what to do with names. Reid would be home soon, Villette would deal with Agent Fuckhead in Nebraska, and he'd have everything sorted and ready to go, by the time they were ready for it.


	19. Chapter 19

It was, in a word, idiotic. But, Chaz was right, and Reid knew it. This had to happen now, or they were going to lose the guy. Except, they had to do it unarmed and without backup, versus a potential gamma, in a secure building in which the guards _were_ armed. This was exactly the kind of stupid he should not have agreed to two days after his last common sense failure nearly got him killed. And yet, here they were.  
  
He walked up to the desk like he belonged there. "Hi, I'm here to pick up a..." He looked at his phone as if it would tell him something. "Joe Fonda? Got a note here I'm supposed to get his bags."  
  
"Of course! Mr Fonda called down to let us know you'd be coming. I'll need to see your ID, and... sign here and here. We'll call to let him know you're on your way up for the bags."  
  
And Reid could feel Chaz's influence in that. It shouldn't have been that easy, and the guy at the desk was probably going to lose his job when he couldn't explain how he'd allowed not one but two federal agents past him without official identification and a call to the owner's lawyers. And it was definitely Chaz's influence that the man conveniently forgot to call up to Mr Fonda. But, Reid crossed the lobby with only cursory glances from the people who worked there, and presented himself at the elevators.  
  
"Mr Fonda's expecting me," he told the young man at the elevator, who nodded and produced a key that would take them to the correct floor.  
  
They rode up in silence, and Reid wondered how many cameras were aimed at him, right then, and whether any of them would pick up Chaz standing beside him. Would infrared work? Would a place like this have infrared cameras in the elevator? These were questions he'd never considered because under what circumstances would they even have come up? These circumstances, apparently.  
  
The elevator opened onto exactly what Hafidha had shown them -- a square hallway with a door to each side and a brass table beneath a wide mirror directly opposite the elevator. It wasn't a large space, which was probably for the best. As Reid stepped into the hall, the elevator door slid shut behind him, hopefully shielding the attendant from whatever was to come. He did notice that the elevator stayed where it was.  
  
Crossing to the door on the right, Reid pressed the button for some sort of chime, he assumed, realising he couldn't hear it out in the hall. Seconds later, the door swung open, revealing a well-tanned man in a very well-cut suit.  
  
"What is it, Mar--" The man's eyes finally settled on Reid. "Who are you, and how did you get up here?"  
  
"If you're Mr Joe Fonda, I'm your driver. I was told to come up and carry your bags." Reid assumed that would get one of two reactions -- either Fonda would step out into the hall, or he'd be allowed into the apartment to get the bags.  
  
"Not a service I requested, but it's nice to see someone thought of it." Fonda leaned to the side to get something out of view of the door, and Reid braced himself, but was merely handed a large suitcase. "If you'll handle that one, I'd prefer the smaller bag not leave my hand."  
  
The suitcase wasn't that heavy, but it was an incredibly awkward size. Still, Reid managed it with some amount of grace, as he stepped away from the door and out of Fonda's way. The second bag, he recognised instantly, not because it was obvious, but because he'd seen that model before. That was a gun case. Actually, it was a briefcase with very easy access to a gun compartment. And with that brought into play, Reid wondered why no one had simply shot Merlo in the head. Surely he wouldn't have recovered from _that_. But, no. Twenty people had been killed to lure him into a position from which he could be poisoned, and then the killer was given an overdose of another drug and left to die. It didn't make any sense.  
  
Reid carried the suitcase the few feet down to the elevator as Fonda came out the door and turned to lock it. And the instant he started to turn, Chaz was on him, one cuff locked around Fonda's wrist before the man even registered movement.  
  
"FBI. You're--"  
  
Fonda was well-trained, though, and turned with the pressure on his arm, as Chaz reached for his other wrist. He tried to hook one leg around Chaz's as he turned, but Chaz pulled him off balance and elbowed him in the face.  
  
"FBI," Chaz said, again, leaning into Fonda. "You're under arrest for the murder of Michael Reston."  
  
Fonda froze. "Reston? You mean the broker? But, I just spoke to him on Tuesday about the Swiss beef!"  
  
That was not the reaction they'd expected.   
  
"You've seen him more recently than that," Reid said, setting down the suitcase as Chaz once again attempted to finish cuffing Fonda. "He took something from me two days ago, and we can prove it's in your possession."  
  
"No, you can't," Fonda scoffed, twisting to pin his own arm and the gun case gainst the wall. "Because he didn't give me anything."  
  
But, Reid already had his work phone in hand, and with it he called Hafidha. "Do me a favour and call my other phone?"  
  
Realisation and then confusion spread across Fonda's face as his trouser pocket began to play an eight-bit video game theme. Chaz took advantage of the break in concentration to wrest Fonda's other hand away from the gun case and close the other cuff around that wrist.  
  
"And it's _my_ phone, so we didn't need a warrant to tap it. Even if we hadn't found it on your person, we still have a recording of at least one call in which you identify yourself."  
  
"So, I have picked up someone else's phone, by mistake. Technically, maybe this is theft, but it is all a misunderstanding, and I will be happy to return the device and pay for any inconvenience. But, I do not see where your phone says that I have killed Mr Reston. Why would I kill him? He has made my company a great deal of money. His advice is generally very good, and he's always available on short notice. These are not reasons to kill a man."  
  
"The last person to have the phone was Reston, who is now dead." Chaz kept one hand on Fonda and pulled the trapped briefcase away from the wall with the other hand. "And there's an extremely narrow window in which his death could have taken place. You now have the phone, and that tells me you saw Reston somewhere in that window."  
  
Reid returned his attention to the phone in his hand. "Yeah, I think we've got enough for the search. Send Montoya over? And... maybe somebody better equipped to take custody of Mr Fonda? I don't really want to have to put him in _my_ car. Y-- What did you expect me to be driving? ... It's evidence, yes. ... He what?" He blinked and looked up at Chaz. "Montoya's downstairs. You should send the elevator back down."  
  
Chaz relaxed almost invisibly, and the indicator for the elevator began to move.  
  
"Why would I kill Michael Reston?" Fonda demanded again. "This is ridiculous. He's worth much more to me alive! Don't you understand, he was very good at his job! I liked working with him! We will be hard-pressed to replace him!"  
  
It was interesting, Reid reflected, that for all his yelling, Fonda hadn't yet asked for a lawyer. Of course, neither of them had managed to read him his rights, yet. And as the thought crossed his mind, Chaz opened his mouth to do it, and Montoya stepped off the elevator, behind him.  
  
"Detective Montoya! Good to see you." Chaz managed a somewhat strained smile. "This is Joe Fonda, and you're probably holding the warrant for his arrest. You should take him into custody, since this is Baltimore's case, and I'm apparently supposed to be in Nebraska, right now, which you'll notice I'm not."  
  
"Do we have a search warrant?" Reid asked, as Montoya finished his spiel and put a hand on Fonda's arm, to lead him back to the elevator.  
  
"We had that before we got the arrest warrant. That phone was most of the proof we needed, and the call was the rest." Montoya looked them over. "Rough night?"  
  
Chaz pointed to Reid. "Stitches. Blood loss. Two hours of sleep. I've been up for days."  
  
Montoya laughed. "Go back to bed, man. I'll get a team up here to do the search, and you can go back to Nebraska tomorrow, if this isn't one of yours. You've got people who are still awake, right?"  
  
"Lewis should be getting up right about now," Reid ventured. "We'll drop Fonda's bags off at the station for--"  
  
"That's where I'm going," Montoya reminded him. "Just put them in my trunk, on the way out. Agent Gates told me to make sure you both go back to the hotel, because she woke you up." He tugged Fonda toward the elevator. "You want to tell me anything?"  
  
"Yes, I want to tell you that Michael Reston was alive and well when I spoke to him about the Swiss beef on Tuesday! I want to tell you that I have no reason to want him dead! Maybe you will listen to me!"  
  
Chaz shook his head at the elevator attendant. "Come back for us. This is going to get way too crowded."

* * *

"I can just not think until tomorrow, right? Or at least until noon?" Reid pulled the stiff excuse for a blanket up to his nose and just sank into the bed. "JJ is not going to be pleased."  
  
"It was an emergency situation, and you and I were the closest available agents. We handled it, and now we're going back to bed." Chaz slid into bed beside Reid, despite not having occupied the same bed, earlier. "And JJ can have her bed back, if she doesn't mind me taking up the other half of yours."  
  
"There are going to be so many questions, most of them involving how tired I was that I let you get this close to me," Reid mumbled, as Chaz curled up around him, back to the wall. "If she sees you touching me, there are going to be serious questions I don't really want to answer."  
  
"Is that 'go sleep on your own side of the bed, Chaz'?"  
  
"No. It's really not." Reid slid an arm around Chaz, waiting the few breaths until their breathing synced. "If anyone asks, we were asleep at the time."  
  
Chaz made a quiet sound of contentment. "Pretty sure Fonda's not anomalous. Still pretty sure he killed Reston."  
  
And that woke Reid right up. "What?"  
  
"He only tried to hit me _once_. He's not as strong as I am, and he's not as fast as I am, and he's not nearly as thin as you'd expect. That last we know isn't always true. You can actually override that, if you can stop being ... always on. You saw it with Holly, and I've seen it _once_ before. But, the lack of strength and speed is suggestive, especially if this guy's supposed to be an assassin. He's good, but if he'd been anomalous, that would've taken both of us. At least. I'm way too tired for that to have gone well, and I'm not that great in a fistfight."  
  
"Unless he was trying to get you to leave him alone with someone he was sure he _could_ get away from. He tested you, assumed I was also anomalous, because I was with you, and decided to wait." Reid groaned. "Where's my phone? We should call Montoya."  
  
Chaz stretched over him, trying not to sit up, and grabbed one of the phones off the nightstand. Didn't matter; he could unlock both of them, and he knew Montoya's number. Resting his head on Reid's chest, he made the call. "Tory, hey, it's me. ... Yeah, I know. I'm working on that. ... Fonda give you any trouble?"  
  
Reid let the conversation wash over him. If he closed his eyes, he could focus on what Chaz was hearing, which probably wasn't good, but it was easy. They were too tired to keep each other at bay. He gathered that Fonda hadn't actually been any trouble at all, and was waiting in a holding cell at the station. He still hadn't asked for a lawyer, but the gun case absolutely had a gun in it, and it was registered to Fonda. It was his excuse for not flying -- he wasn't supposed to be separated from the gun, so he'd come in on a cargo ship that he'd also be leaving on, because he was in no rush to get to his next destination and he enjoyed the sea. It was his cousin's ship, incidentally. It wasn't illegal, it was just abnormal. Fargo's papers withstood inspection -- he hadn't come into the country illegally. But, they circled back to the gun. Why had Fonda been carrying a gun, in the first place?  
  
He'd claimed he hadn't felt safe coming to America, and he'd heard that everyone carried a gun, so he'd gotten one. And then he'd gone off about how he'd travelled all over Europe and the Caribbean, and never been somewhere as dangerous as he'd heard the United States was. Since Reston hadn't been shot, the gun really didn't matter, anyway, and they all knew it. The only thing they had Fonda on was the phone, which could only have come from Reston. And again, and again, he insisted that Reston's death not only didn't serve him, but put him in a terribly awkward position with his employers and their investors.  
  
As much as Montoya hated to admit it, they might not be looking at the right guy. But, Fonda was the only lead they had, and if they could figure out how he'd gotten the phone, it could establish where Reston had been and who he'd seen in those missing hours. Or, it could put them completely off track, if Fonda _had_ killed Reston.


	20. Chapter 20

"The American Society for the Betterment of Mankind?" Byers eyed the scanned brochure on the tablet screen with no small amount of concern.  
  
"Yeah, who'd have guessed? Langly's some kind of prototype for the ubermensch." Frohike snorted and shot Langly a sidelong look. "I question the decision-making skills of everyone involved in that. They could've done so much better."  
  
"Hey, at least I can see over the top of the counters," Langly shot back.  
  
"Not without your glasses on. You can't see _anything_ without your glasses."  
  
"Neither can you!"  
  
"Yeah, but I'm not the poster boy for humanity two point oh."  
  
"Anyway," Byers cut back into the argument, before it could get much further, "these are subject numbers, not sample numbers."  
  
"Where the hell do you get that?" Langly leaned over to look at Byers's tablet instead of calling up the file on his own screen.  
  
"Look, the letters are gender and national identity, so the numbers have to be subjects. It wouldn't make sense to have the samples labelled like that, if there was more than one subject that could fit that description." Byers gestured to zoom in on the part of the letter with the list. "Here, that's 'male Italian', this is 'male ... Belgian', I think, that's 'female Irish', and the one Granger had such good luck with was 'female... Swiss? Swedish?'"  
  
"Swedish," Langly said, as his mouth went dry. "Mary and I were joking about it. Mary probably looks like her..."  
  
"So, somewhere out there, there's a Swedish woman who's your... ah..." Frohike looked at Byers for help. "There's got to be a word for that."  
  
"She's not even my mom. Not really. I mean, besides the 'didn't raise me' thing, she's not related to me like that. I'm some kind of mutant genetic duplicate. She's the original, I guess." Langly looked more than a little ill.  
  
"This is why people keep saying you look good in a dress," Frohike teased, trying to keep Langly from sinking any further down the short road to Puke City. "You look just like her."  
  
Byers kicked him under the table, and Langly ignored them both.  
  
"Why are we assuming she's alive? Even if she's young, she's probably twenty years older than I am." Langly stared into space, trying to pull his thoughts together.  
  
"Because I'm doing just fine and women almost always live longer than men," Frohike pointed out.  
  
"Not when they're anomalous. The Anomaly shaves a few decades off your lifespan, if you're lucky. If you're not, you drop dead in a few days. And she'd have been obvious enough to attract the Society's attention, in the fifteen years they were looking for subjects, which means she's old enough to be my _grandmother_."  
  
"No, she's not." Byers looked up. "You're looking at the wrong window. Between the wars, they were still focused on the breeding programme that never went anywhere. This is the second batch, so, yeah, she's probably twenty or thirty years older than you are, and... she's probably dead."  
  
Frohike cleared his throat into a word. "Susanne."  
  
" _Susanne_ hasn't been anomalous for fifty-something years," Langly snapped. "She turned somewhere in the eighties, we think. And I hate to break it to you, Byers, but... it's been thirty years, and the outlook is not so good."  
  
"Villette, then, who also hasn't been fifty years, but he's got a few years on Susanne in the anomalous department. And he's in pretty good shape, all things considered. Obviously, _some_ people manage," Frohike argued.  
  
"Frohike, she's still in her... well... eighties, I guess." Langly blinked a few times. "Yeah, okay, if she _wasn't_ anomalous, she'd probably be alive. How do we find out who she is? Who, well, all of the subjects are? And probably more importantly, how do we do it without Kim of Bedlam wiping his ass with us?"  
  
"Are you sure it's really him?" Byers asked, raising an eyebrow at Langly.  
  
"Aunt Copper says it's him, and I recognised some of the gear they were travelling with. It's not _him_ him at the house, but it's his work. Those were his people." Langly made a frustrated noise and shoved his hair back. "And I'm not replacing those curtains until we stop them. _Him_."  
  
"Langly, you're good, but are you _that good_?" Frohike shook his head, holding up a finger when Langly opened his mouth to retort. "This isn't you, me, and Kimmy Belmont against the Air Force, this time. This is Kim of Bedlam, and he's... I'd like to see my next birthday, and maybe the five or ten after it, too."  
  
"I'm cheating," Langly reminded him. "I don't have to play fair at all, and since we're talking about people _trying to kill us_ , I'm pretty sure that's gonna be inexplicable gamma bullshit all the way down. It's not like they've got anyone to complain to. I know what I'm looking for, this time, and they are going to come back for us. For _me_. And this time, you get to stay home. I'll go out with Villette and maybe Gates, this time. All I need is a dumbass with a cel phone, and I'm in. And they won't be able to follow me home, because the hardware doesn't exist. I probably do need Gates, though. I'm not going out on something like this without the White Rabbit and maybe Vanity. Never actually worked with Vanity, but there's a first time for everything."  
  
"Yeah, let me get you a _priest_ before you get on that plane." Frohike reached up to smack Langly upside the head, but for once Langly was just that little bit faster and batted his hand away. "You're out of your mind, Langly. This is how you get killed."  
  
"I'm already dead," Langly drawled. "And I'm not going to get killed. I'm going to prove I'm better than Bedlam."

* * *

When JJ finally got back to the room, she knew she'd find Villette there. There was no way he was driving back to Alexandria in the shape he was in, and Montoya had mentioned sending him back to the motel with Reid. But, he'd had four hours, and it was her bed now.  
  
Except it wasn't her bed at all. It was _Reid's_ bed that Villette was in. With Reid.  
  
At a glance, they were both still dressed, but they were wrapped tightly around each other, with Reid's head tucked under Villette's chin. And she didn't think she'd ever seen Reid look that comfortable that close to another person. In fact, she wasn't sure she'd ever seen Reid that close to another person, except that one time with 'Frank', and that was different. They'd been naked and wrapped in a blanket, and she'd looked away to be polite, but she hadn't felt the same sense that she was intruding on something that she did right now.   
  
She half wondered if they'd each mistaken the other for someone else, in their sleep. They'd been completely exhausted, and neither of them had expected to need to be awake before dawn. It was conceivable that Reid thought he was in bed with Frank, because he was just that tired. And Villette... well, she really didn't know much about Villette's personal life, beyond the fact that he lived with Gates in a place she couldn't even imagine affording.  
  
And then she heard that quiet, panicked whine that so often signalled one of Reid's nightmares, and it took her a moment to realise he wasn't the one making the sound. Villette tensed, and she could see it in the curve of his body under the covers. This wasn't something she should be here for. This probably wasn't something Reid should be here for. But, before she could get her coat and step back out, Reid's hand came up from under the blanket, clutching at Villette's shoulderblade. Or... just short of it, really. She watched his fingers roughly knead and stroke the same line, again and again, until Villette's entire body relaxed, and he reached up and curled his fingers into Reid's hair.  
  
And that was it, wasn't it? She'd heard that when he travelled with Villette's team, Reid always roomed with Villette, and there were hints that this was for the best -- that no one but Gates, who lived with him, particularly wanted to share a room with Villette, anyway, on that end of the floor. It was the _nightmares_. Left together, they didn't wake up, and she wasn't quite sure what that meant, in the grand scheme of things, but she was very sure she wasn't supposed to know.  
  
As with so many other things about Reid, she'd say nothing, until it was important for her to know. There was no doubt it would be, someday, and that the day it mattered hadn't yet arrived. She hoped she wasn't going to get stuck explaining this to Frank.

* * *

Chaz answered his phone with an incomprehensible noise.  
  
"Agent Villette?" a voice he didn't know inquired.  
  
Realising this was neither Mary nor Tory, he cleared his throat and tried again. "Yeah. And you are...?"  
  
"Deaver, from the Lincoln field office?" The words were expectant, like Chaz was supposed to know why he was being woken up from a dead sleep.  
  
"Lincoln... where?"  
  
"Nebraska."  
  
"Oh, _shit_." Chaz threw the blankets off and sat up, twisting his arm out from under Reid's shoulder. "What happened? Why is the local office involved?"  
  
"I see your consultant can't be trusted to deliver messages."  
  
"Wha-- _Oh_." Chaz curled forward, elbow on his knee, forehead on the heel of his hand. "Okay, this is the Saltville house. I was going to call you back in a few hours. My partner and I just got out of an all-nighter, and I wanted to make sure coffee would actually help, before I took another look at that, but here you are."  
  
"We should have been notified that the ACTF was working in the area, but once again, your people failed to--"  
  
"Bullshit. Check again. You were notified more than three weeks ago, by Penelope Garcia." Chaz rolled his eyes at Reid, who had an inquisitive eye on him, before he realised he'd woken Agent Jareau, as well. He hadn't even heard her come in, but he waved and shook his head, before getting up to finish the call in the bathroom.  
  
"Nebraska," Reid said to JJ, as the bathroom door closed. "And that's my cue to get up and find breakfast."  
  
"So, ah... Something I should know about you two?" JJ asked, studying Reid's face.  
  
Reid blinked. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, getting out of bed and pulling slightly less rumpled clothes out of his bag.  
  
"Spence, I don't think I've ever seen you get that close to another person, intentionally. I don't think I could've fit a sheet of paper between you at any point."  
  
Reid's spine stiffened even as his cheeks flushed, and he stepped into the coat closet with what little dignity he had left, intending to change his clothes in the last place in the room that wasn't directly in JJ's line of sight. "I don't know what you want me to say. I was _asleep_. But, you _have_ left me very badly wanting a shower, so thanks for that."  
  
JJ sighed. "Spence, I didn't--"  
  
Reid leaned around the door, buttoning his shirt. "No, you did. You absolutely did." He ducked back into the closet and went for his pants. "I know you, JJ. I know how this works. You're trying to see if this upsets me. You're trying to see if this is some new normal that we're not talking about. You're trying to figure out what this means about my relationship with Frank." He leaned back out of the closet. "I'm not cheating on my boyfriend. Not that you'd be able to tell, if I was, but I'm not. We knew you were coming back, before we were going to be awake, and it was the politest way to make sure you had somewhere to sleep. And if we weren't on opposite sides of the bed, then it's because I'm getting used to there being someone else in bed with me. Someone I'm _supposed_ to be that close to. And I absolutely refuse to take responsibility _to you_ for something that happened while I was asleep and didn't involve you in any way." He cleared his throat and ducked back into the closet to make sure he'd actually gotten all of the buttons straight. "And I will probably apologise to _Chaz_ , later, for putting him through that. Is that it? Is that what you wanted to know?"  
  
"I'm just trying to figure out if you're _okay_."  
  
He finally stepped out of the closet and grabbed his jacket. " _No_. I'm _not_." He pointed at his arm and raised his eyebrows. "Tell me what you want for breakfast and go back to sleep. I should be back in an hour."


	21. Chapter 21

"Take your toys and go home, Villette," Montoya teased, clapping Chaz on the back. "It's Baltimore's case, and we've got somebody in custody. This isn't going anywhere interesting until Fonda tells us something we don't know, or the Italians get back to us."  
  
"Technically, this was never my case. You called the BAU. This was just a garden-variety serial killer." Chaz held up his hands and shook his head. "The intended final victim, though... Well, you met him."  
  
"There's no way he's almost seventy." Montoya peered up at Chaz, waiting for the punchline.  
  
"And that's why I'm involved, however peripherally." Chaz failed to hold back a smile, the corners of his mouth turning up in amusement, even as he held his lips in his teeth. "He's not almost seventy. He's over seventy."  
  
Montoya blinked a few times and then changed the subject. "Secretary's pretty cute, though. She's like something out of an old movie. I think they've got something going on, though."  
  
"Or you're just not her type," Chaz suggested, eyebrows drifting upward.  
  
"You're making the face, Villette. You're making the face that says you know something and you're not telling me."  
  
"She's his _daughter_."  
  
"She's his I'm sorry _what_?" The words ran together without a pause.  
  
"Daughter. Adopted, sure, but she's family. He and his wife adopted her in Greece. She's older than both of us."  
  
"There's no way. You're pulling my leg, here. You're the one that told me the weird shit makes you die young."  
  
"I'm personally familiar with dozens of cases in which that's true. I'm also familiar with a very small number of cases where it _isn't_. It's not _common_ for people to survive very long, but it's possible, under certain circumstances." Chaz had never told Montoya about himself, and he wasn't going to, now. To Tory, he was still a monster-hunter, not a monster.  
  
"You're really not making me feel any better about your job."  
  
"That's why it's my job, not yours." Chaz continued to look faintly amused, even as Montoya punched him in the shoulder.

* * *

Reid drove Mary home, or what passed for 'home' while she was in town. Honestly, he thought it would have been less expensive and more efficient to find her an apartment than to put her up in the hotel Langly favoured, but Langly had insisted that the hotel had the kind of security they needed -- something that would at least blip, if Bedlam came through it. The place was designed to protect high-value political assets, so something like what he was counting on them to slow down was exactly what they were expecting.  
  
"You going to be okay, tonight?" Reid asked Mary, as the car filled with the mouth watering and eye watering smell of the large pan of heavily-seasoned pasta in the back seat.  
  
"I've had my adventure for the month, thanks." Mary laughed, twisting around to steal a garlic roll from the bag behind Reid's seat. "I'm just going to sit in the hot tub for a few hours and go to bed. And lemme guess. Admit nothing to anyone who wasn't in the room for it?"  
  
"Unless you get a call from OPR about my arms." Reid looked a little less than entirely entertained at the thought. "It's not likely. Of course, given that none of what happened this week was what I'd consider probable, it's only fair to mention that might happen."  
  
"Do they know--"  
  
"Yes. And so does your cousin." Reid paused, brow creasing slightly. "Took you long enough to ask."  
  
"The scars are old and you've got none of the signs, so those aren't just because you moved to somewhere less obvious. It doesn't really matter, outside the context of a medical emergency. Not the kind of thing you'd think I'd pick up in rural Nebraska, but it's heroin one way and the Kentucky acid pipeline the other. Harding's lucky the worst thing he's got is somebody growing pot in Aunt Helen's barn." Mary snorted, her mouth full of garlic bread. "I'd've smoked it. Not mine, but it would've been if I'd been the one to find it."  
  
"I get the impression the only reason I wasn't suddenly surrounded by the smoke of other people's bad decisions is because it was evidence."  
  
"Other people's bad decisions? As in not yours? Because I'm so sure you have room to talk."  
  
"Other people's bad decisions, as in that particular one has never been mine. I have made a multitude of poor choices in my life, and none of them have involved smoking or marijuana in combination with each other or anything else."  
  
"No, you just skipped straight to--"  
  
"It wasn't heroin. Change the subject." Reid's voice was like ice.  
  
"So! Tory's a cop. Let me tell you that wasn't my first guess. But, I guess fake fangs and Lestat's wardrobe have that effect."  
  
"Do any of us really look like the stereotype of our jobs?"  
  
Mary laughed. "Dick. If I was going to pick some greasy hacker who lives on ramen and Jolt, he's it. He looks exactly like he's supposed to. You and Chaz a little less so. No, a lot less. You look like an academic -- a history professor or something. Him too. Well, _on duty_. Off, he's... well, like Tory, I guess. Except Tory looks a lot less dangerous, even posing as a vampire."  
  
Reid knew exactly what she meant, and promptly denied it. "You sure that isn't just a reflection of whatever's going on between the two of you?"  
  
"What between me and Tory?" Mary blinked and squinted at Reid. "There's nothing going on between me and Tory, not that I'd turn that down."  
  
"I don't know how far you're going to get. He's apparently upset that we're not in love with Chaz," Reid teased, trying to keep the conversation relatively light. "I guess he was hoping for a grand romance."  
  
"Yeah, he seems like the type. I don't know, can I put up with grand romance? I should probably answer that before I stick my foot in that."  
  
"I can't," Reid admitted. "It looks wonderful on paper, and it's almost fun, for a little while, but there's so much that depends on situations we'll never have. The story is nice. The fantasy is wonderful. But, reality is... _differently_ wonderful."  
  
"Which is why you didn't throw Dick down the stairs when he showed up at your hotel in Idaho." Mary cleared her throat and shot Reid a sympathetic look. "Yeah, he told me about that."  
  
" _Motel_ , and even that's a generous description." Reid shook his head. "Did he tell you how upset I was?"  
  
"He kind of glossed over that part, but I couldn't see that going over well. It's different if it's a conference or something, but working on an evolving situation? Not the time."  
  
"And he knew better, but he didn't figure it out until somewhere after he picked up dinner in Las Vegas. I got the night off. I wasn't as essential as I'd be in another day or two. But, I got the impression it wouldn't have hurt anything if I _had_ just sent him back by himself, because we both knew it was ridiculous."  
  
"That's true love, my dude. That's what they don't tell you in all the romance novels. It's not about making time, when you're working crisis response, it's about understanding the value of patience."  
  
Reid gestured at the back seat. "I'm making up for missing dinner, because I ran out for this case."  
  
"Good things come to those who wait, right?"

* * *

Reid sincerely hoped 'good things' included Langly getting to his apartment before he did, because there was no way he was going to be able to manage his bag, the tray of pasta, and the door, at the same time. And maybe also, speaking of doors, a door to the bedroom he was getting completely spoiled for having. Which meant he probably should consider sleeping somewhere more sensible, tonight. It was a bad idea to get used to things that didn't -- and shouldn't -- actually belong to him.  
  
At the top of the stairs, he paused to study the door and the distance the tray in his hands would keep him from it. After a moment, he gave up and kicked the door, and almost instantly, Langly whipped it open.  
  
"Whoa. Hey. That's..." Langly sniffed as Reid walked past him into the apartment. "That's actually a catering tray of cajun mac and cheese, isn't it? You seriously just drove back from Baltimore with dinner and probably breakfast for both of us."  
  
"You did ask," Reid reminded him.  
  
"I might have been kidding, and I was definitely expecting you to forget." Langly blinked and relieved Reid of the tray, stepping around the half-wall to put it on the table. "Which doesn't mean this isn't exactly what I wanted, and I'm always impressed when you do that."  
  
"Yeah?" Reid hung up his coat and slid his arms around Langly, resting his chin on Langly's shoulder. "Then you're going to be even more impressed that I just remembered I still have your Christmas present in my desk drawer, where it's been sitting since before I left for Idaho. It's only what, the beginning of February?"  
  
"You could save it for Valentine's Day," Langly teased, reaching back to hook his thumb through one of Reid's belt loops.  
  
"Nope. I have plans." Reid buried his face against Langly's neck. "I have wanted to come home to you since I left. It's... it hasn't been that long, but this was..." He stopped and took a breath. "Did you want to have dinner? I should let go of you so we can eat."  
  
"You drove back from Baltimore with it. I'm pretty sure it's already cold. I think I'd rather take reckless advantage of the fact that you're home, first. I mean, if you're up for that." Langly gently squeezed Reid's wrist and did not miss the sudden strangled sound that followed. He froze. "Okay, so, reckless advantage is off the table."  
  
Reid carefully peeled Langly's hands off himself and met him at half a turn, so they were face to face. "Reckless advantage is absolutely in, but only if you don't touch my right arm." He cleared his throat, taking the opportunity to look at his cuff as he unbuttoned it and rolled up his sleeve. "Like I started to say, this case did not go as smoothly as I might have liked."  
  
Langly took in the bandages with a long look. "You get the guy?"  
  
"He's dead. The case isn't really finished, but Baltimore's trying to wrap it up without help, and there's nothing we can do for a few days, until everything gets sorted out. You'll notice I'm being extremely vague, here."  
  
Langly made a dismissive gesture. "How bad is that?"  
  
"It's not really that deep, but..." Reid traced the line of the slice through the bandages. "A little dangerous, but I had two doctors immediately to hand, and it's really not that bad. It just hurts."  
  
"This is the part where I tell you to take something for it, and you give me that disappointed look, and like an hour from now you actually take a Tylenol, so let's skip that," Langly drawled, taking Reid's hand very carefully. "You sure this is a good idea?"  
  
"I'm pretty sure if you distract me enough, I will stop paying attention to the dull ache the topical can't do away with." Reid rolled his sleeve back down. "You sure you don't want to eat, first?"  
  
"If you're hungry--"  
  
"I'm not." Reid sighed and put his arms around Langly again, stepping that little bit closer. "I'm... I can't talk about this case, but Chaz can. And he will. There are things that are... things that you need to know. Things that Byers needs to know. And that's me avoiding the subject again. I just want to stay right here, for a minute. You know I lost my phone. I know you know, because it's not lost any more. It's... evidence. Again."  
  
"Okay, so, less 'lost', more 'stolen'? Or did you get stabbed in it?" Langly tried to make a joke of it, but it came out weak.  
  
"Stolen. Definitely stolen. Along with my gun, which is also still being held as evidence." Reid buried his face against Langly's neck, trying to keep himself together just a little longer, now that he was home. "Nobody got shot. There was an impromptu undercover thing that went awry. It worked a little too well. I was right where I needed to be, and I didn't see it coming. My gun, both phones, my glasses... It was only a few hours. I know I probably should have called, but... my phone. And I really didn't want you to worry. I needed you to see that I was okay, before I said anything. It really sounds a lot worse than it is."  
  
"There are not enough verbs in that description." The pieces started to come together. "You didn't just get stabbed. You didn't even just get stabbed in the phone. Reid, come on, what the hell?"  
  
"I was taken hostage, for a few hours, by a man trying to do some kind of blood ritual to summon his intended victim. It sounds ridiculous. It was fairly ridiculous while it was happening. The cut on my arm is because he was trying to use _my blood_." A high, sharp laugh leapt between Reid's parted lips. "It was just a few hours. Mostly he tried to convince me to help him rid the world of a drug kingpin, and if it had been that simple... But, he said the only way to get the victim to show up was to give me a moderately serious wound. So, he did. And no one was more surprised than I was, when the victim came through the door."  
  
"Oh, shit. You made it, but did the victim?"  
  
"Surprisingly, yes. And then he rescued me, because he's a former _field medic_. And that's where this became _Chaz's_ case, not mine. Sort of mine. I am the liaison, but... Do you know how hard it is to be a coherent and rational person when you're-- of course you do. I know that."  
  
"Yeah, it's... That's one of the places my job is easier than yours. It doesn't matter if I'm incoherent for a few days." Langly half-snorted his amusement. "You ask Frohike, I'm usually incoherent. You, ah... you're really okay, though?"  
  
"Probably." Reid held on a little tighter than was wise. "Mostly. My arm's fine. I've been through worse. I've put myself through worse."  
  
"Just going to be a few days before you stop freaking out every time somebody breathes a little too loud in the same room with you?"  
  
"I am _not_ that bad."  
  
"Maybe not, but I am. You should've seen me after that one time--"  
  
"Weren't you going to recklessly take advantage of me?"  
  
"You sure you want me to? I mean, that you're--"  
  
"Yes. _Now_."  
  
There was a faint undertone of panic that Langly recognised from thirty years of living with Byers. That was the 'now' that meant 'before I completely lose my mind and spend the rest of the night making a miserable ass of myself'. Not that he thought Reid could possibly manage Byers-level useless moping, but he wasn't about to tempt fate. Besides, he'd been looking forward to a somewhat less awkward version of this moment all week.  
  
"I will throw everything off my desk, if I have to," Reid went on, as Langly nipped at the side of his neck to get him to lift his head.  
  
"You probably don't want to do that," Langly murmured between kisses. "I just put all your mail there."  
  
Reid stared at the ceiling, suddenly thoroughly distracted from the pain in his arm. "How did you get my mail?"  
  
"Please, I've been doing this for how long? Those old brass-front boxes are pretty, but the locks are crap." Langly nipped at the edge of Reid's jaw, scattering a few more kisses along that line, as he talked. "Your hands were going to be full. I got here first, so I got your mail. And if you don't leave me passed out in a pool of sweat and spooge, I'm probably doing your laundry before I go to bed. I just had the washers in the basement replaced, and I haven't had a chance to test them, yet."  
  
"I'd ask if you ever sleep, but I know you do. I've seen you sleep." The amused look was almost lost to proximity, and whatever Reid had meant to follow that observation with was lost to the sudden, demanding press of Langly's thin lips against his own.  
  
"Yeah, I sleep about as much as you do," Langly breathed, before leaning back into the kiss. "And you know what else I did? I got your door in. Which is why your desk is... I'm pretty sure I put it back in the right place."  
  
Reid's spine suddenly straightened, and he looked over his shoulder at the furniture on that side of the room. "You moved my desk?"  
  
"And I didn't drop anything, either. Taped everything off before I dragged it across the room. Like with the windows, but the other way. You wanted subtle, right?" Langly grinned. "It's gonna take a hell of a perception check to find it."  
  
"I know there's a door there, and I know you moved my desk, so that's one of two bookcases, and it's that one." Reid pointed to the one nearer the front door. "Because the other one's blocked by another bookcase."  
  
Langly blinked, nonplussed. "... ... Remind me I want you along the next time I run a dungeon crawl."  
  
"I just have the context to understand what I'm seeing."  
  
"I'll tell you what: If you can figure out how to open the door, I'll ravish you on the bed, like the inevitable stolen princess in a whole genre of shitty fantasy novels. If you can't figure it out, we'll go for up against the wall."  
  
"Now, I'm not sure if I _want_ to figure it out..."  
  
"Okay, the princess thing was a little far. I get that."  
  
"No, the wall sounds _good_." Reid twisted Langly's hair around his fingers as he turned back for another kiss. "Like the first time. I remember that. I _wanted_ to remember that."  
  
"And now you want to do it again." The corner of Langly's mouth curled. "Against the wall, then you can take your time with the door, and _then_ on the bed."  
  
"If you can keep me from passing out, I'm in favour of this idea."


	22. Chapter 22

It made him dizzy in ways being drunk never had. Breathless, driving lust interrupted by flashes of attention-grabbing, insistent pain. The room spun in his vision, but it mattered less with the wall pressed firmly against his back. Just a wall. More than enough to cover his back, unlike the pillar in the-- _No, let it go_. And he focused again on the demanding kisses pressed against his lips, against his neck, on the warmth of the thin body pressed close against his own, and the subtle ache where sharp hipbones pressed into his thighs. He could take control, if he wanted it, but he didn't want it at all. He wanted to be wanted. He wanted to be safe. And here, pinned against the wall, with his legs wrapped around Langly, he was both, and it was perfect.  
  
This wasn't the same-brained semi-masturbatory experience of being with Chaz, and in some ways he was grateful for that. Not that he didn't enjoy every minute of that, but there was that difference in the way Langly thought, in the way he approached things, and as well as Reid knew it, he could still be surprised by it. Pleasantly surprised, at the moment.  
  
"You okay?" Langly panted against Reid's lips.  
  
"I'd tell you, if I wasn't." The words came out sharp, but Reid's fingers were gentle in Langly's hair, pulling it back out of the way, again.  
  
"Tell me what you want." More words than usual, but the context called for them.  
  
"You. I want _you_. I just want to remember that I'm alive."  
  
"Pretty sure being _dead_ doesn't give you a raging boner," Langly scoffed, rolling his hips as a reminder and taking a moment to appreciate the way Reid's thighs clenched against his hips. "I know what you're going to say. Don't. Been there, thought that."  
  
One of Reid's eyebrows drifted up, but his eyes didn't open. "Harder. I was going to say ' _harder_ '. I'm not going to break."  
  
"I'm not worried about _you_. I'm worried about the _wall_."  
  
Reid's responding chuckle was cut off in a sudden gasp, as Langly ground against him, desirous and demanding. And that was it. That was what he'd been waiting for. And that didn't sit well with him, but that was his own problem with himself, and he wasn't going to think about it, when he could focus on the pressure, on the way his nerves sparked as Langly rutted against him. This close, the air between them was well-used, but he welcomed the sensation of lips and tongue, the drawing of breath from breath, the dizzy sparkles on the backs of his eyelids. He thought he might drown in this, and he wondered how long it would take him to mind. Certainly, he didn't mind now, as Langly leaned harder against him to free up a hand that tugged the front of his unbuttoned shirt out from between them, sweat damp fingers tracing his ribs.  
  
"Mmph," he insisted into the kiss, which was not quite what he'd meant to say, but hopefully Langly would be able to interpret the sound correctly.  
  
An inquisitive sound followed, and then a roll of the hips, a few rough thrusts, and Langly's fingers digging into his thighs, trying to keep him from sliding down the wall. Reid wasn't sure at what point his entire body had relaxed, but he realised he'd started to slip down, and he couldn't quite get his arms to brace him against Langly's shoulders.  
  
But, that wasn't so terrible. Maybe he'd just sit on the floor for a moment. The room wobbled around him, when he tried to open his eyes, so he closed them again, turning his head to get the space for words. "You should put me down."  
  
"Are you okay?" Langly sounded even more concerned.  
  
"I'm fine." Reid smiled faintly as Langly leaned into him and slowly brought him down the wall, which was probably for the best, since he wasn't sure his legs would hold him. "No, I'm... I'm _good_. I'd be great, if I could stand up."  
  
Langly finally eased himself out from under Reid's legs, moving a small pile of books out of his way. "Did you just--?"  
  
"I'm going to go with yes. Probably." Reid smiled and reached for Langly's face, stroking his cheek, drawing him in for another kiss. Amusement and a hint of embarrassment coloured the next sentence. "I think I blacked out for a few seconds."  
  
Langly laughed, resting his forehead against Reid's. "Promise me you'll say that to Kimmy, for me. Not, like... now, but... eventually. Kind of want to rub his face in that."  
  
"Absolutely not. I'm not sure I'm telling _Chaz_." The embarrassment sat high on Reid's cheeks, pressing at the bottom of his eyes. "That was, ah... I'm really... Wow. Just... wow." He flexed his hands, experimentally. "I can't feel my fingertips."  
  
"Are you sure that wasn't a stroke? I mean, it'd be a blow to the mighty Manhammer, but I'm pretty sure that's not supposed to happen."  
  
"No, that's... Ten minutes. That happens sometimes. But, blacking out was a first. Not sure if that's a good sign, a bad sign, or a sign that I should actually sleep at some point." Reid tipped his head back and nipped at Langly's lip, missing it on the first try. "Maybe I should make an attempt on the door, in the hopes I make it into an actual bed before my brain decides I've done enough for the day."  
  
"Or... I could just open it for you and carry you to bed," Langly offered. "You look a little pale, and that's saying something."  
  
"See, you made the door a challenge, and now, I'm going to open it, because I'm looking forward to the rewards." Reid gazed contemplatively into the dim blur that was Langly's face. "I don't need to stand up to open it, do I?"  
  
"Mmm..." Langly tipped his head to the side, forehead still touching Reid's. "Probably not. You're my height, right? You should be fine."  
  
With that, Reid nudged Langly back and pushed himself up onto his knees, a surprisingly uncomfortable proposition. "In answer to your earlier question, I am now absolutely certain that I'm correct," he said, tugging at the leg of his trousers until they sat something like right.  
  
Langly glanced down, but without his glasses, couldn't make out Reid's point of reference. Or maybe it wasn't visible, unlike the slightly darker smear still soaking through his own jeans. He pulled his t-shirt down, reflexively.  
  
"You want me to help you over there?" he asked, watching Reid find his balance.  
  
"No. It's not even two feet away, and I don't even want to look at you, while I'm doing this, because you'll look at something, and I'll see it. Certain parts of my day job consist of getting people to tell me things they don't mean to, and I will absolutely inadvertently cheat us both out of a proper solution, if I can see you or I let you lead me." Reid kept one hand on the wall as he moved carefully toward the bookcase. "This one wasn't part of the wall, before, but it's going to be, now. There's a frame, if there's a door, and it occupies at least two inches of space around the outside of the bookcase."  
  
He tapped on the wall, listening to the sounds.  
  
"Obviously, the bookcase doesn't swing out into this room, because moving it without tracks would be almost impossible, when it's full, and that would defeat the purpose, so either it swings the other way or it doesn't open like that." Reid eyed the edge of the bookcase. "And it doesn't swing the other way, because there's no way it would go through the wall at an angle, because it would catch on the edge of the frame, so it goes straight back. And pushing it isn't likely to be the answer, because it's too easy to open by accident. So, there's a latch or a lock to disengage, before it's going to move, and that has to be somewhere I can reach it from down here, which means it's not hidden on the top. Top's too exposed anyway."  
  
Backing away from the bookcase, he noticed that his books were exactly where he'd left them and the shelves had been dusted, possibly even washed. Langly had probably taken photos of the shelves before he pulled everything out of them, which would have to happen to get to the wall behind it.  
  
"There's no trick book. I recognise all of these, and you wouldn't dare attach the release to something I already own and might try to use. So, where is it? It's somewhere I'm not looking. It's somewhere I don't usually look, something that doesn't draw attention." He ran his hand along the underside of the shelves he could reach, and found nothing. "It's somewhere I can reach from down here. Down..." Mild annoyance at himself crossed his face as he looked down. He could 'probably' reach it, Langly had said, which he'd taken to mean it would be easier if he were standing. Still... He reached out and pressed one of the little round screw covers that hid the screws that attached the bottom of the façade. "Not that one. You can kick that one, by accident. This one."  
  
He pressed it and it moved, so he pressed it harder, and the middle of the façade sprung free on his side. There was a grinding sound from within the wall, as he pulled the lever toward himself, and the bookcase started to shift backward, surprisingly stably.  
  
"Here, let me get that," Langly offered. "I don't want you falling on your face, when it stops holding you up."  
  
Reid backed away and sat back on his heels, watching as Langly nudged the bookcase back a few inches with his shoulder and then reached around one side and slid it behind the wall. "I always wanted one of those," he admitted, after a moment. "When I was a kid, I used to take all the books in the house down, looking for secret doors. And then I'd get distracted and start reading them, instead of putting them back, and that's how I got caught. Every time."  
  
"Well, lucky you, taking the books down won't help anybody find this one. And I tried it a few times to make sure you won't knock books off moving it. I think it's okay. Might have to tweak it, later, after you use it a bit. Nothing's ever right on the first try." Langly shrugged and offered a hand to Reid. " _Now_ , do you want me to carry you to bed?"  
  
"I'm feeling a bit more stable. I was thinking about getting a shower." Reid wobbled as Langly pulled him up, and it was only grabbing the edge of the new doorframe that kept him from falling. "But, if you _want_ to carry me to bed, strictly because that's an appealing and romantic thing to do..."  
  
Langly looked at his own arms and then at Reid, contemplatively. "Can I throw you on the bed and rip your clothes off?"  
  
"How resilient is that mattress?" Reid looked unconvinced.  
  
"We'll have to find out at some point, right?" Langly grinned.  
  
"Okay, fine, but you can't actually rip anything. Buttons need to stay attached. Don't... do anything I couldn't wear out in public, as long as I wash it first."  
  
"Deal." Langly swept Reid into his arms -- inspiring a small, surprised squeak -- and staggered through the doorway, careful not to smack anybody's anything into it. "And really, probably better if you let me have my wicked way with you _before_ you take a shower. I mean, otherwise it's two showers, and my hair is splitting just thinking about that."  
  
"Not a problem I have," Reid reminded him, with a faint smile.  
  
"You're heavier than you look," Langly muttered after a few steps, the ache in his arms reminding him he'd already spent a good ten minutes supporting most of that weight, recently.  
  
"You can put me down, you know. I'm not going to fall over."  
  
"Nope. Said I was doing something appealing and romantic." Langly staggered a few more steps toward the end of the bed. "Something something slaying dragons, ravishing princesses... Are you actually into that? I can work with it if you are, but I would not have guessed."  
  
"Actually, I kind of am. It's just that _being_ the princess is an interesting shift in perspective." Reid shrieked as Langly gently tossed him onto the bed, reflexively tucking his chin and throwing out both arms to break his fall. The look on his face said he'd thought better of it a moment too late. "That was exactly the kind of stupid my mother insists I'm not."  
  
"Your mother, pardon me for saying so, is in a nuthouse. Besides, she's your mom. She's supposed to think you don't do dumb shit like catching yourself from an eight-inch fall onto a soft surface by slamming the arm you got stabbed in onto it." Crawling onto the bed across Reid, Langly stopped for a closer look. "You going to be okay? You didn't pull any stitches, right?"  
  
Reid gently patted the bandages, squinting at them as he turned his arm. "It's not bleeding, or at least not enough to be concerning. As long as neither of us leans on it, I should be fine."  
  
"Right, so, no tossing you onto anything for the foreseeable future, and..." Langly paused, a hint of a smile curling the corners of his lips. "I guess I'm on top, if you can't lean on that arm."  
  
"Which also means I can't lean on your hair, so this is probably an improvement anyway," Reid teased, clutching his arm absently to his chest. "Weren't you going to savagely claim me in the name of your barbarian gods or something?"  
  
"Uh, maybe a little less 'savage', after that." Langly sat back across Reid's knees. "Sit up a sec, so I can help you get your shirt off, before it catches on your arm?"  
  
"I love that at least one of us is usually paying attention to the little things." Reid pushed himself up with his good arm. "I'm pretty sure that's the sign of a healthy and functional relationship."  
  
Langly snorted and held Reid up, while he extracted his good arm from the shirt, first. "Because either of us would know what one of those looks like."  
  
"Two points. Just because I've never had a particularly functional romantic relationship doesn't mean I don't know how to identify one. Secondly, I wasn't just talking about romance. Particularly good friends should also be able to do that." Reid brought his other arm around and let Langly peel the shirt off it. "Of course, if you're in a romantic relationship with someone you wouldn't call a friend, I'd think that's a far more serious fault than the inability to be someone else's common sense."  
  
"I barely knew you," Langly reminded him, stealing a kiss before sliding off the end of the bed to deal with Reid's shoes.  
  
"When we met? I'd hardly call that romantic. Definitely sexual and strangely appealing, but I'm pretty sure the romance came later, which is not the usual order of events for me."  
  
"Might have something to do with why it's _working_." Langly raised an eyebrow and tossed a sock across the room.  
  
"Alternately, you're a slightly off-centre individual in a similar enough line of work that we understand the stresses and dangers of each other's jobs and their accompanying lifestyle in a way that a majority of the population doesn't. We don't have the cop's wife problem. You haven't resented me putting you in danger, yet -- and you understand that being publicly associated with me _does_ put you in danger."  
  
Langly just stared at Reid for a very, very long moment. "Uh, _same_? There are assassins out there looking for me? And that reminds me of something we're talking about tomorrow, because right now I'm kind of in the middle of that whole ripping your clothes off and ravishing you thing. I mean, really, oh fucking no, you got me involved in a dangerous case or three. I got _myself_ shot at without your help, way before you ever even thought of joining the FBI. What does that make it? _Probably Tuesday_. So, yeah, you're right. I don't want to waste my time with somebody who just fundamentally doesn't get it. Or somebody who's fundamentally Yves, but that's a whole other story. I mean, on some level, that's what _Byers_ was like, in the beginning, and I do not have the patience to do that again, for what will no doubt be a lesser reward. But, I didn't have to, because I was perfectly happy being single, and then some hot fed fell in my lap and I got to skip most of the hard part, because you're a fed, and you _get it_."  
  
Reid cleared his throat. "I'm not sure we've skipped any of the, ah... 'hard part'. Definitely hoping we're not going to skip it right now."  
  
Langly stared, blinking slowly. "Did you just--? That's it. I'm telling Penny you make dirty jokes, when she's not looking."  
  
"She's perfectly aware of that fact, thank you. She has even, dare I say it, heard me use expletives."  
  
"Pssh. You don't even swear in front of _me_." Langly tipped his head. "Well, usually."  
  
"Langly?" Reid waited until Langly's eyes were back on him.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
Reid pronounced the next two words slowly and precisely. " _Fuck me_."


	23. Chapter 23

Reid wondered if he'd ever felt quite this naked, but it was disturbingly difficult to concentrate on anything, with his hips pulled up to where Langly knelt between his thighs, one hand still on the leg he'd gripped to get them into that position. But, Langly hadn't leaned forward, hadn't come down to murmur terrible ideas in his ear or to kiss him. He still knelt upright, gazing lecherously down the length of Reid's body. And Reid found he wasn't sure how he felt about that, even if it was definitely exactly what he'd wanted. Still, the blood rushed to two parts of his body, even if one of those was his face.  
  
"As the greatest warrior of my people, I claim the prize that is rightfully mine!" Langly curled a hand around Reid's hip, rubbing the heel of his palm against the bone.  
  
Reid cleared his throat. "Am I supposed to put up some sort of token resistance, here?"  
  
Langly cocked his head and shrugged. "If you want, I guess. I think token resistance is way more Villette's thing. You're not supposed to think he's easy." He froze, eyes rounding, as he reached past Reid for something on one of the shelves. "Uh, you're not... He's not..."  
  
"No! No, he's ... no. We're not. He told me to spend some time with you, as if that wasn't exactly what I meant to do, when I got home, and then excused himself. Something about Agent Deaver in Nebraska? But, no. He was very firm about leaving us alone with each other for a couple of days. It's almost the weekend. I'm sure we'll be back to it by Monday." A wicked smile played at the corners of Reid's mouth. "So, no. He'll never know about your triumphant barbarian warrior's ah... celebration of that triumph."  
  
Langly fastened a snap and buried his face in his hands. "I'm suddenly reminded this is completely ridiculous."  
  
"Langly? _Sex_ is ridiculous." Reid still looked amused. "It's supposed to be enjoyable and just practical enough that no one suffers any long-term damage in the pursuit of that enjoyment."  
  
"This hasn't gotten too entirely stupid?"  
  
"Not yet." Reid cleared his throat again and pulled at the blanket until he could drag part of it over his chest, as Langly tried to find the right side of the condom. Reid hadn't asked, but he knew Langly understood at least some of the concerns, after what he'd just been through. "Oh, curse the day I was chosen to lead the Queen's armies, in my bright and gleaming armour--"  
  
"And that completely gigantic codpiece," Langly muttered, both hands occupied between Reid's thighs.  
  
Reid twisted half to the side, cackling. "I'll have you know that was a very specific period in the history of platemail and it was almost completely decorative!"  
  
"As decorative as the Queen's favourite chosen to wear it?" Langly teased and Reid's eyes lingered on him, strangely serious for a moment.  
  
"I'd like to think I'm a good bit more than just decorative!" Reid protested, the sparkle back in his eyes, as he aimed for something just cheesy enough, hands still clutching the blanket to his chest. "But, alas, I've been captured by the barbarian horde, brought as a sacrifice to appease their greatest warrior!"  
  
"Oh, I'll see what more you can offer!" Langly leaned forward, one hand on Reid's hip, moving his fingers out of the way as he eased himself into the space they'd occupied.  
  
Reid's head tipped back, sinking deeper into the pillows, as his eyes drifted shut, a guttural sound that might have thought itself a word caught low in his throat. A ripple of muscle crawled down his left thigh and repeated once more, as he fought the urge to roll his hips. It was much too soon for that. _Breathe and relax_ , he told himself. Just a little longer.  
  
He could feel the shift in position as one of Langly's arms caught under his knee and his hips lifted higher as Langly pushed in deeper. Claimed. A prize. Decorative. Nonsensical flattery, but flattery no less, and intentionally ridiculous. He remembered the way Langly had looked at him, stared at him, studied every inch of his body as if it were something worth remembering. And that, honestly, he'd never wanted that. He'd never wanted to be quite so visible, quite so seen. None of those were the parts of him that mattered, beyond that they worked reasonably well. He wasn't meant to be desirable, and usually he wasn't particularly fond of the idea, but he'd almost come to accept Langly looking at him like that, like he was at once worthy of adoration, but also just _meat_. And it had never been quite as plain as it had been, tonight. Never so exaggerated, amplified, and... well, _barely_ apologetic, if he was honest with himself. It was that background hum that this was just a game, that nothing was to be taken too seriously, that somehow made it almost acceptable--  
  
The entire line of thought stopped when Langly yanked the blanket out of his grip and tossed it aside. Reid's eyes blinked open, and he looked up in confusion.  
  
"You okay?" Langly asked, catching the look but not the reason behind it.  
  
"Yeah, I'm ... I'm great. I was just trying not to, ah..." Reid cleared his throat and stopped talking, a strained smile settling awkwardly on his face.  
  
Langly's eyebrow arched. "Pssh. Surrender."  
  
"Should I be--" The sentence slammed straight into a sudden, sharp breath, as Langly applied both his tongue and the majority of his attention to Reid's nipple. And Reid could feel the way his thighs tensed, knees digging into Langly's sides, but he couldn't quite get his legs to relax. Well, he _could_ , but doing that from here was going to have the kind of dramatic and unpleasant results he'd much prefer to avoid, especially when the alternative glided along his nerves like cold wire, the pleasing chill offset by the hint of danger, much like the teeth against his skin or the fact he was relatively sure he wasn't quite as flexible as he seemed.  
  
Still, his hips canted and his thigh trembled -- just one -- and for a split second the teeth were that much sharper as Langly tensed between his legs, a reprieve from that dizzying lust for the space of a breath. And then Langly's hips snapped forward, a shiver wracking his body, disrupting the rhythm of the next few thrusts, if not their intensity. Reid could hear every sound that fell from his own lips in time with those thrusts -- clipped, needy sounds, ragged-edged gasps of desire. He was close, but not close enough, and every touch of Langly's flesh against his own was just another tease.  
  
"Don't stop," he pleaded, when Langly tensed again. "I want this. I want more. I want _you_."  
  
As if it were of some terrible importance that this incredibly pleasurable torment against every nerve in his body continue, just like this, he begged until he lost track of the words. He pleaded until the sounds from his mouth were nothing more than nonsense and still they conveyed his need. The sensations became increasingly abstracted from anything that could actually have been happening, size and distance distorted by intensity and time, until nothing made any sense at all, and he was certain if he just kept pursuing it he could find an end to the tantalizing ache that seemed to run through his veins, flaring with his pulse against the inside of his skin.  
  
When Langly slid a hand down between them, the last thing he expected, with the way Reid had been howling for more, was to be slapped away. Reid stared up at him, wild-eyed, obviously trying to find the words, both his hands once again clenched around the edge of the pillow, over his head. "You okay?"  
  
"Mmh." It was an affirmative sound and it came with a nod. "I want--" The words came out rough and dry, and Reid brought a hand down to his mouth to cough, before he tried again. "I want to be inside you."  
  
"I am going to die satisfying your deranged lusts, one of these days," Langly teased, stretching up for a kiss before he tried to figure out how to make that happen with the least damage to either of them. "Death by Federal Sex Vampire. I'm doomed to that, now, I think."  
  
He stretched again to get a condom off one of the shelves, and held it up. "Can you manage?"  
  
"No idea." Reid grabbed at the condom and almost dropped it twice before he managed to tear the wrapper. "You know what you were doing a minute ago? You should do more of that. Especially if I'm going to get this on."  
  
"Don't think you're going to have a problem. You're not actually..." Langly gestured down.  
  
"I'm ... not." Reid willed his fingers to work, the intent far stronger than his own ability, for the first few attempts. The edges of his skin felt like they were in the wrong places, and his body was demonstrably out of sync with his senses. "Useful, but somewhat disconcerting, much like the rest of today has been. Still, just a little more..."  
  
Langly didn't look quite convinced, but Reid was stringing together complete sentences, even if they were still a little breathless. But, he pulled his eyes back down to the sweat-speckled flush across the top of Reid's chest and spotted the faint marks of his own teeth below that.  
  
"Langly, I'm fine." Reid's exasperation hit before the words, but Langly's hips rolled, before actual annoyance could take hold, and even that faint displeasure went right out of his head. Trust. Langly took him at his word, and he usually didn't have to insist too much. It was dangerous, really, and one of these days he was going to make a mistake that would seriously impact them both. But, that day wasn't today.  
  
"Please," was the next word out of his mouth, his hands back up on the pillow where he wouldn't accidentally catch his arm on something, because he misjudged where his body was in relation to everything else. He felt the disconnection, the strange dissolution begin again, and his hands, which he knew were right beside each other, felt two different sizes and separated by vast distance on every axis. In another time and place, he could probably have found it concerning, but in the moment, all that mattered was the pleasure that floated across the endless rivers of himself, like flowers on a pond.   
  
There, this was where he'd been when the thought had come to him. "Now. Do it now!"  
  
There was no shortage of awkward fumbling, as Langly tried to untangle himself from Reid's legs and get himself into position, but once he was there, the long stuttering breath Reid drew in left him certain he'd done the right thing. His thighs, on the other hand, ached like they did in competition weeks, and he knew he'd hate himself in the morning. At the very least, he probably wasn't getting out of bed, but it was going to be absolutely worth it, he thought, watching Reid arch and shudder under him at every twitch of his hips, every flick of his fingers. It didn't seem to matter where he touched, Reid still shivered and gasped, still made those strangled pleading sounds that always meant he wanted more, but couldn't unclench his teeth to ask for it. Right on the edge, Langly knew, but not going over.  
  
Lips, tongue, Reid recognised the sensations, but not what part of his body they were on. He wasn't quite sure there were distinct parts of his body any more. And it definitely took much too long to recognise his own voice as the water he'd become turned into starlight. And then reality slammed back down, just a little too firmly.  
  
"Langly? I love you, but... _stop_."  
  
"You okay?" Langly asked for what must've been the fifth or eighth time since they'd gotten to the bedroom.  
  
"I have no idea. I'd go with yes, but I think my skin is going to crawl off my body in self-defence. I think it's just the stress. First day home is always a little weird."  
  
"First day home is usually you being irrationally horny, and me being totally okay with that," Langly teased, slowly lifting himself off Reid and reaching for a tissue. The shelves had been an incredible idea, and he'd be thanking himself for that brilliant decision for years to come... assuming they actually stayed together for years, which was... something he tried not to think about in so many words.  
  
"That's a recent development," Reid protested, shivering as the sweat started to dry. His arm now hurt more than it had since the night he was first wounded. "Do you remember the Tylenol you said I was going to roll my eyes about until later? I think it's later."  
  
"I'm not getting up again," Langly muttered, stretching across Reid.  
  
"Then get off me, and I'll get it myself!" Reid snapped, awkwardly trying to extract himself from under Langly.  
  
Langly forced the bottle of Tylenol into the hand Reid was shoving at him with.  
  
Reid took a moment to realise what was happening, and he stared blankly at the pill bottle. "When did you...?"  
  
"I know you. It's been there since Christmas." Langly grinned and started tugging at the blankets, trying to get both of them under, instead of over. "And because I know Villette, there's orange juice on the other side."  
  
Reid held out his other hand, expectantly.  
  
"Move over, first. I already pulled the blankets down, and your arm gets to be on top if you're on that side."  
  
Reid sat up just enough to kiss Langly, before he shoved himself over with his good arm. "Have I mentioned that I love it when you're smarter than I am?"  
  
"It's not smarter. It's just I give more of a shit about you than you do."  
  
Reid chuffed with amusement. "I'm pretty sure that goes both ways."


	24. Chapter 24

Langly pulled the bookcase after himself, when he left the bedroom, making the room disappear like some strange dream, which Reid still wasn't quite convinced the night before hadn't been. But, he watched the way Langly pulled the bookcase and locked it into place, relatively sure he'd be able to do the same, by the second or third try.  
  
The first thing Langly noticed when he turned around and moved further into the room was the t-shirt. It was exactly the sort of thing Reid didn't usually wear, even around the house. The second thing was that the bandages were off, and it looked like Reid meant to put fresh ones on by himself. "You, ah... want me to get that for you?"  
  
Reid looked down at the roll of tape in his lap and the pot of salve on the table next to his arm. "Yeah, actually, that'd be great. It's not that I can't do it, it's just that I'm willing to admit you're probably going to do a better job, under the circumstances."  
  
Langly stepped around the half-wall and took the seat just behind it. He studied the wound in Reid's arm, which was at once much larger but much less serious than he'd expected. "You sure that needed stitches? It looks like it's closing up okay."  
  
"I'm sure that if I took the stitches out, it would look a lot less okay, very shortly. It's only been two days? Three?" Reid painted the salve across the stitches with his fingertips and then wiped his hand on a tissue. "This is why it looks that good. I got the impression it wasn't particularly intended for over the counter sale, but I've been assured it doesn't have anything in it that I'm allergic to, and I'm not having any reactions to it, so I think I'm just going to keep using it."  
  
"What.. is it?" Langly asked. picking up the jar. "It doesn't have a label."  
  
"It's an antibacterial and anaesthetic salve, mostly beeswax, interestingly. I expected I'd try this once and go back to Bactine and Neosporin, but it works better than anything I've ever used for this. I have some suspicions that may be because the doctor who produced it is anomalous. I didn't really have time to ask too many questions, before I got sent back to the motel to lie down. Blood loss is ... kind of tiring."  
  
Langly's face shifted and Reid could tell he was trying not to laugh.  
  
"What?"  
  
"So, we all know the Anomaly is basically magic. Yeah, I know, there's a science in there somewhere, but look at me. I'm a fucking wizard. You--" Here the laugh finally became unavoidable. "You ran into a cleric who gave you a healing potion."  
  
"Bard," Reid corrected. "I'm pretty sure diplomats are bards."  
  
"You said he was a _doctor_." Langly squinted at Reid. "And since when do you know your ass from your elbow about Dungeons and Dragons?"  
  
"Blame Chaz." Reid shrugged and held out his arm and a roll of gauze. "And he was a doctor. Past tense. He's now a diplomat."  
  
"And he's anomalous? How the hell do you have time to get in two careers if you... well, okay, _me_. I guess if he turned later." Langly looked again at the stitches, and then started wrapping.  
  
"I don't know. Chaz did the interview. You can ask when he gets back from Lincoln."  
  
Langly almost dropped the roll of bandages. "No, no, no! He can't be in Nebraska right now! I thought you meant he was talking to Deaver, not he flew out there!"  
  
"He won't be there for long. He just went to inflict himself on the local office after some complaint about how we handled ourselves while we were in town." Reid watched the way Langly's hands moved more stiffly. "What is no one telling me?"  
  
"I was going to tell you when I finished wrapping this," Langly protested. "I was going to tell you over breakfast, but then... this." He took a deep breath. "The information from Aunt Copper came in about two hours late. Kim of Bedlam tried to burn down the house, most likely assuming we were still in it. Damage really isn't that bad. I was waiting for them. Forced them out, but I couldn't keep them busy until Harding or the feds got there. They took off like... seconds after Harding pulled up, and I couldn't see them go, because they melted the housing on the camera in the kitchen."  
  
"And why does Chaz know this and I don't?"  
  
"Because it was _your_ case in Baltimore, not his." Langly looked up from the bandages as he taped them into place. "So, I dumped it on the task force member who wasn't already working on another case."  
  
Reid blinked. Of all the answers he'd expected, that didn't make the list. "Okay, that was probably a good decision."  
  
"Better decision now that I know you got _stabbed_." Langly still didn't look thrilled with that turn of events.  
  
"I hate to be the one to say this to you, Langly, but my work has seen you hospitalised _twice_. I just needed stitches. I'm fine."  
  
"Fuck off. You do not get to count Helmsman as _your_ work. That case was _mine_." Langly squinted, irritated, hands still holding the tape but not moving. "Is this you taking the long way around 'now you know how I feel'?"  
  
Reid's best innocent look wasn't all that innocent. "You should finish that, so I can stop sitting in this chair."  
  
"What's wrong with the chair?" Langly leaned to the side and looked.  
  
"Chair's fine." Reid cleared his throat. "I may be having second thoughts about some decisions I made, last night."  
  
"Couch?" Langly asked, tearing the tape. "I guess I should've been a _little_ less reckless with the delicate war-leader princess."  
  
"If you'd asked me if I was okay one more time, I'd... I don't know what I'd have done, but I'm pretty sure neither of us would've been happy with it." Reid shoved his chair back, leaning on the table with his good arm, as he got up. "I'd also be okay with you never calling me princess again."  
  
"So, we're not telling Chaz?"  
  
"We're not telling Chaz." Reid headed for the kitchen, walking a little stiffly. "What did you find out about the clinic?"  
  
"Got some more patient names, two more doctors, and then we got the real fun. It was absolutely a eugenics experiment. Wading through the euphemisms of the twenties, I get the impression there were some guys who had more money than sense who watched some other guys convert in the trenches during World War One, and they wanted to find out what made those guys different and how they could use that to make 'better Americans'." The last two words came with finger quotes. "There's a pamphlet somewhere about how it looked like magic, but they were sure it was science and good breeding. They were trying to gather soldiers who were anomalous or women who had anomalous relatives, and get them to have a bunch of kids together, except, you know, a lot of them didn't survive the war, and everybody else pretty much got married as soon as they came home safe or ended up shut away as head cases, so they had to track down other people who could take the place of the soldiers. Either way, a lot of people thought they were crazy, so that didn't go so good."  
  
Reid stepped out of the kitchen with a cup of coffee and sat sideways on the couch, watching Langly over the back of it. "Okay, so then the clinic was a later attempt to achieve the same goals. The second generation, yes?"  
  
"Yeah." Langly nodded, eyeing the coffee, and got up to get his own cup. "So, they imported some Russian scientists who'd done early experiments on twins and cloning and gave them good American names. But, the Russians didn't have much luck. _Granger_ was the one who could get results, and he wrote a letter complaining that the Society was sending garbage samples to the rest of the team."  
  
"Where did the samples come from?" Reid asked. "Or, where did they find the people to provide the samples?"  
  
"Byers is pretty sure they're all European -- England, Belgium, Italy... Sweden." Langly moved Reid's legs so he could sit and then pulled them back across his lap. "We think the original Not-Langly was a Swedish woman, but we don't know anything else about her or who she was, who her family was... There's nothing there."  
  
"Italy?" Reid's curiosity splashed across his face. "You don't happen to know where in Italy, do you?"  
  
"No, I'm not even sure it is Italy. I mean, Byers is making good sense, but we don't have anything to confirm the assumption." Langly threw a sidelong look down the couch. "Why?"  
  
"I've heard the cleaned-up version of some things involving, ah, anomalous individuals in Venice and Naples. Chaz will tell us both the whole story when he gets back from Nebraska."  
  
" _If_ he gets back from Nebraska," Langly huffed. "He knows why he shouldn't be there. Where the hell is he staying? He can't be in the house, even if I _am_ watching it... which says he's not in the house. And I know the Bureau only pays for like Motel 6, and that's not really going to help if Bedlam goes after him."  
  
"He flew out last night, and he's on the first flight back, tomorrow. And yes, he's fine. He's in a meeting."  
  
"Field office staffed all night?" Langly stared contemplatively into space.  
  
"Not _usually_. What are you thinking?"  
  
"I'm thinking being surrounded by fibbies is the best place for him until he gets back on a plane. He shouldn't be out there. I'm pretty sure they're waiting for us to come back."  
  
"Why? If they're trying to kill us, the most common cause of death attached to this case is _car accidents_. There's no need to wait for us to return to the house that they've already... How bad is it really? The house?"  
  
"It's not. The fire department was on the way before the fire started. There's gasoline or lighter fluid or something all over the floors, but it didn't really get out of the kitchen. I'm pissed about the kitchen, but it could've been a lot worse. I'm pretty sure the fire was started because they were trying to burn _me_ out. They thought I was actually in the house, or that someone was, when the lightning started. I convinced Agent Douchebag that we'd booby-trapped the house before we left, because we knew they were coming." Langly snorted and sipped his coffee. "They couldn't figure out what was happening or how to shut it down. Watching three grown men try to find a security system that doesn't exist was pretty great. Nothing showed up on the scans, and _obviously_ someone was watching them. I was just trying to keep them busy until somebody official could get out there, but they spooked and took off, and Douchebag couldn't find them."  
  
"They're still looking for us, though. Or they're looking to discover what we know. And I think it's fair to assume if they're connected with the removal of the clinic's personnel -- which would be somewhat unusual, given the time between events -- that they're already familiar with the idea of anomalous individuals, even if they're less familiar with the nature of the Anomaly." Reid paused, shifting his weight. "If it's the same organisation, it's probably not the same people. Not thirty years later. The question is whether they were briefed on what to expect, because if they're familiar with the concept, I'm pretty sure they know we have at least one gamma on our team. You're not exactly subtle, when you're upset."  
  
"I don't think they know what they're dealing with. And I don't think they have anyone who knows how to handle it, either. They'd need _Villette_ if they meant to come after me. Or at the very least another one like me or the White Rabbit."  
  
"Assume, for a moment, that they may. If your description of the organisation -- Kim of Bedlam's people, not the... what did you call them?"  
  
"American Society for the Betterment of Mankind."  
  
"Not the Society, then. But, if your description of how Kim of Bedlam acquires contractors is accurate, there's a very good chance he's already working with someone anomalous. Possibly several of them. These are people who left high-stress, high-clearance jobs because they felt they'd been wronged or thought they'd get a better deal in the private sector, and now they're mercenaries and assassins. These are people who have very likely been in exactly the kind of situations that would trigger latent anomalous abilities, fairly regularly."  
  
"Auntie says there's rumours the Society sampled Bedlam, himself. Nobody's got any idea why, though."  
  
"Consider this may be why he's been the top of the field for so long."  
  
"There's no way. He'd be dead."  
  
Reid looked away and chewed on his lip. "I don't know the details. Chaz will have to fill them in when he gets back. But, apparently, that's not always the case. I don't have anything that would qualify as proof. I just have a story."  
  
"What are you talking about?" Langly twisted sideways. "You convert and it kicks the crap out of you. Then you convert again, and it takes twenty or more years off your life. Thirty years after his first job for the Society, Kim of Bedlam would be dead, if he were anomalous. The guy's not young. He's like Frohike's age, if not older."  
  
Reid took a deep breath and studied his coffee, intently. "We now have record of an anomalous individual who, like Chaz, claims to have been born anomalous. His birth certificate says he's sixty-seven, this year. I've only seen part of his face, but he doesn't look older than me."  
  
"Birth certificate's a fake." Langly shrugged.  
  
"We know." Reid nodded, still not looking up. "But, the evidence suggests he may be _older_ , not younger. Like I said, we don't have _proof_ , yet, but the circumstantial evidence is fairly suggestive."  
  
"You're telling me it's not always fatal, and you're telling me it doesn't always turn people into serial killers, in the end. I mean, I'd point to Villette, but it's not the end, yet."  
  
"I'm telling you that there's a _possibility_ the anomalous children of anomalous parents may have longer lifespans than the first generation." Reid slowly raised his gaze to meet Langly's eyes.  
  
Langly blinked. "I'm a _clone_. What the hell is that supposed to mean for me?"  
  
"We're not sure." Reid set his cup on the corner of the table. "But, it may be why Kim of Bedlam is both anomalous and still alive."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who the fuck is Kim of Bedlam, anyway? What's going on with the mysterious Mr Fonda? Is Aurelio telling the truth? And what does all this mean for Langly?
> 
> FIND OUT... I'd say next time, but the next one's the Valentine special, and it's already added to the series. :D
> 
> As usual, fucking off for a week or two, while I get a grip on the next part of the plot, because WOW, A GOOD FORTY PERCENT OF THE MAIN PLOT HERE WASN'T AT ALL INTENTIONAL!


End file.
